


First Rule

by StellaLuna365



Category: Avengers: Earth's Mightiest Heroes, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Avengers Family, Depression, Domestic Avengers, Emotional Abuse, Extortion, Fight Clubs, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is dealing with Depression, Physical Abuse, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Avengers, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25231204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StellaLuna365/pseuds/StellaLuna365
Summary: On the worst night of Peter’s life, it’s not just Ben who dies—May is killed, too.Peter is placed in the foster system with two monsters who use him to further their own agenda, and Peter can’t take it anymore. He’s on the verge of ending it when Tony Stark and the Avengers come together to show him there might be something to live for, after all.Deals with depression, suicidal thoughts, mental health issues, and subsequent recovery.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Bucky Barnes, Peter Parker & Everyone, Peter Parker & Natasha Romanov, Peter Parker & Sam Wilson, Peter Parker & Steve Rogers, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 86
Kudos: 353





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So this isn’t really your typical Spiderman AU. First of all, Spiderman doesn’t actually come in until later, like almost the very end (lol hey Whispers what are you doing here), but Peter’s there the whole time. It’s gonna be a decent length, full of Peter!whump (physical and emotional because I’m horrible like that), and it’s got some warnings.**

**Warnings for physical and emotional abuse.**

**Warnings for suicidal ideations.**

**Warnings for language.**

**I’ll add to it as I go if anything else pops up, but please be safe!! If this will make you uncomfortable, I want you to take care of yourself first and foremost!**

**Also, the Avengers don’t show up until around the fourth chapter, but they’re there! I promise! They’re like 90% of the story (besides Peter). Onward!**

**Enjoy :)**

I’m walking. I walk a lot, nowadays.

I wander the filthy streets of Queens, the chilly January wind biting through my meager clothing. Torn jeans do nothing to protect my legs from the chill, and the frayed edges of my sweatshirt are balled up in my frozen fingers in a poor excuse for gloves. I should have grabbed a coat, but the one I have is shredded and thin. Melissa and Jacob won’t buy me a new one.

I like walking. It’s slow, and peaceful, and I’m alone. No one wants anything from me, and I can just…be. It’s a nice change.

My phone rings and I shudder. Only two people ever call me, and it’s never good.

“Hello?” I answer, my voice trembling. My subconscious mind blames it on the cold, desperate to keep just an ounce of shredded pride.

“Get your ass back here,” Jacob growls, sounding distracted. “There’s a fight in a half hour. We’re leaving in ten minutes.” He hangs up before I can respond, an answer frozen on my lips, just like the rest of me.

No. No, _no_.

I kick a trash can, watching the metal bend and break beneath my foot, the rare outburst of anger startling even me. I run a hand through my messy hair, fingers shaking. And then I start run back.

What else can I do?

I make it in nine minutes, the bitter air stinging my lungs. They’re already waiting in the car. I swing into the backseat, eyes glued to the van’s dirty floor, and click on my seatbelt. I almost welcome the warm car after so long in the snow. They don’t even acknowledge me as they peel out of the driveway, my door barely closed as they do so.

“Got a call from Troy,” Jacob says while Melissa frantically speaks on the phone, making the arrangements. “Our usual ring has a new champion tonight, demanding to fight you. You’ll fight, and you’ll win, you hear me? My dealer’s coming around tomorrow and my payment’s up, and we’re almost out of vodka, so God help me, you _will_ win this fight.”

I swallow. “Okay,” I say quietly, staring at my scuffed sneakers, willing my hands to stop shaking.

It’s all I can do to keep from throwing myself out of the car and taking my chances, but I stay resolutely in my seat, my mouth firmly shut.

When I was fourteen, my Aunt May and Uncle Ben tried to stop a robber leaving a convenience store. I’d been there. I’d seen it. It wasn’t my business, and I didn’t want to help the manager who’d just been a jerk to me, so I let it happen.

I lost my family because of it.

I _could’ve_ done something. Some damn Oscorp field trip had turned me into…whatever I was. Enhanced senses, speed, strength, agility, and some freaky sixth sense that alerted me to danger. I had some bad luck, and was placed with Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber up in the front seat. They were…okay, at first. Kept me fed, bought me clothes, things I needed. They were never family, but they’d kept me alive, at least.

Then Jacob lost his job. Melissa kept hers, but things were tight, and Jacob started drinking. When that wasn’t enough, he started getting high, too, on anything he could find. Unsurprisingly, that didn’t help the finances, but neither did my living there. I was another mouth to feed, another body to clothe. So, of course, it wasn’t the hundreds they blew on drugs and alcohol, it was my fault.

They never really stop reminding me.

It wasn’t too bad, at first. A slap here, a punch. Maybe a kick, if it was something really bad. And I healed fast, so no one ever saw the bruises; I hid them for school, and they usually avoided my face.

I never defended myself. It was soon after losing Aunt May and Uncle Ben, and the grief and guilt made me feel like I deserved it. I still think I deserve to be hit every once in a while.

I never meant to let it get so bad.

One night, when Jacob was _really_ drunk, he told me to get on my knees, and I was so scared, because he looked so _mad_ , that I did. When he told me to take off my shirt, I did that too. I didn’t even register the fact that I could fight back. It was pure terror and fear and guilt thrumming in my body, and I did everything he said.

And then he started hitting me with his belt, and even when I cried and begged and _pleaded_ , he didn’t stop. Melissa watched, cigarette dangling loosely from her mouth.

I still have the scars.

The next time, I fought back. I couldn’t let myself go through that again. I _refused_.

They saw my powers. They saw the strength and speed the spider bite gave me. Their eyes lit up like Christmas morning, and I knew I was screwed the second it happened.

That was the moment they solidified their power over me. It was the second I knew I was never getting out of there. No matter how strong I was, how fast, I couldn’t outrun their greed.

Jacob’s old job was a research assistant at Oscorp. He had an old friend there who he said would _love_ to get his hands on me, for a good, high price.

He and Melissa said that as long as I brought in more money than he offered them, they’d keep me clothed, fed, with a roof over my head. As soon as I stopped winning the fights they set me up with, they’d hand me over to him gift-wrapped.

While the two of them were scheming up a story for Child Services, saying I’d attacked them and run away and that I was incredibly dangerous, I’d be in a dim torture room on a metal table getting cut open and experimented on and everything else I was so terrified of.

I saw the news articles before Charles Xavier really became a big presence, and I read about what the Sokovia Accords wanted to do before the addendums and revisions. I knew that people like me didn’t stand a chance, and at fifteen, I’d be in an even worse position.

I haven’t stopped fighting since.

The fight club is located in a slummy part of Queens. It’s an unsaid rule that no one making more than minimum wage would ever be caught dead walking the streets there. The club itself is in a rundown warehouse, with boxes stacked at various heights against the walls to form crude stadium seats.

The stage is just a spray-painted square in the middle of the floor, with a chair on either side for the fighters. There’s a table set up near the back where money is exchanged and bets are placed, near the warehouse’s office. The owner of the club—Troy Hancock—keeps to himself in there, counting his money. I’ve seen him a handful of times. He only comes out for the really good fights or when there’s an issue that requires the intervention of the owner.

He would no doubt be watching my fight. I’m the club’s biggest money-maker.

I had gotten good at fighting by watching. My powers helped, but even if I could dodge everything they threw, it wouldn’t matter if I couldn’t throw punches of my own. I’d gotten good at fighting, and now I could win in ways that wouldn’t hurt my opponents too badly. A well-aimed punch would knock them out for a minute or so, but it wouldn’t cause any lasting damage, and it would get me the win. I’d learned some martial arts holds in my free time from Youtube, and with my super strength, my opponents had no choice but to yield.

I’ve been so lost in thought that I barely notice when we stop. I get out of the van and follow Jacob down the narrow hallway while Melissa goes to enter my name and pay my participation fee.

“Jacob, thanks for coming!” Troy says, emerging from his office. They share a firm handshake, and then Troy turns to me. “Nice to see you, Peter. Your opponent is a formidable fellow, but I have no doubt in your abilities!”

“Thank you, Mr. Hancock,” I say numbly, my arms wrapped around my torso in the chilly air. A bitter breeze reminds me of the solace of solitude I’d had just moments before, dampening my already bleak mood.

Jacob grabs my arm and drags me to the ring, where I go to my usual corner and take off my sweatshirt, draping it across the chair back. I slip off my sneakers and put them under the chair out of the way, rolling up my jean legs so I won’t step on them. My t-shirt has short sleeves, so that’s fine. This is a routine, now.

The stadium seats are filled with people. I suppose this will be a big fight. There’s some cheering when I come in from my regular supporters, and some boos from those who really hate the fact that a kid is costing them all their bets. I let myself smile the faintest bit. It’s ironic, I guess.

I look up when the crowd starts cheering in earnest, thunderous applause that shakes the building. How this place hasn’t been discovered yet, I’ll never know.

I turn to the other side of the ring, where a _huge_ guy has just come in through the side door. He’s 6’6”, made of pure muscle. His _muscles_ have muscles. My wiry little 5’6” self has to crane my neck just to look him in the eye. I’m distantly jealous.

 _Well,_ I think positively, _this’ll be great._

The introductions are made to the crowd, and then they’re given five minutes to place their bets. My opponent’s name is Devin Grigovski. He is twenty-six years old, and he works part time as a constriction worker. My guess, he does this on the side to cover the rest of the bills. He weighs 246 pounds, and I am actually a little afraid for my life when he bares his teeth in what might have been a grin. Hey, at least he smiled. Maybe.

The warning bell rings for us to get ready. I step barefoot into the ring, bouncing on my toes. The rush of adrenaline is the only thing I like about doing this: for once, I feel in control. For once, I can decide how this fight goes, because it’s physical, and I’m strong, and capable. The other fights in my life have been with jaded adults who tell me that living with strangers is going to make everything better, that they’ll be kind, and they’ll be my family. They said changing schools, starting over, would be a _good_ thing.

The fight club is the only place I can let out the _tons_ of pent up rage. So I take advantage of the cruel circumstances, and I let it all out.

The buzzer sounds.

Neither of us moves.

If Devin is surprised, he doesn’t show it. Rookies always made their first move at the very second the buzzer sounds. I am no rookie. I am a veteran.

After ten seconds of sizing each other up, Devin comes at me with a quick punch to the ribs. My spidey-sense tingles, and I jerk out of the way, striking back with a hit on his shoulder. He grimaces, but doesn’t let it slow him down. His eyes narrow as he dances back, and we circle each other for a few seconds.

I prefer defensive fighting. Offensive is useful sometimes, but I find it a lot easier to dodge with my sixth sense and strike back than to think about striking first. So, when he comes at me again, I’m ready.

His next move is somewhat sloppy, a reaction to the impatient yelling of the crowd. I see his eyes flick to the stands in apprehension, and he approaches again. I don’t care if the crowd supports me or not. All I have to think about it what will happen if I don’t win.

Staggered images of bloody glass and yelling and shouting is all I need to want to win.

I dodge the halting punch thrown at my head, swinging to the side and using his wide position to strike low, hearing the breath whoosh from his lungs at the jab to his stomach. He stumbles, but his bulk is nothing to scoff at. He recovers quickly, eyes narrowing in frustration.

He clips me on his next punch, and I wince, my shoulder throbbing in protest. Damn. That’ll hurt for a little while.

Still, the sacrifice is more than enough. His satisfaction to finally landing a hit lowers his guard, and he’s on the ground in the next ten seconds, knocked silly by a solid thump on the head.

I stand, breathing heavily as the crowd chants the numbers, feeling the adrenaline rush from my head to my toes as some of the tension in my shoulders it relieved.

“Ten!” the crowd finally cries with the referee, stamping their feet in approval or cursing in dismay as the referee lifts my arm, my shoulder throbbing at the motion. “Peter wins!”

The majority of the crowd is roaring in thunderous applause or surprised approval, and I see money quickly exchange hands. To my right, I see Melissa and Jacob counting out bills with stars in their eyes. I know I will never see a dime of that money, but I’m too tired to be angry. The referee, a middle-aged man I’ve come to know from my time here, pats me on the shoulder in approval before slinking away.

Tired, hurting, not at all happy with my situation or my win, I kneel beside Devin, who’s shaking his head as he returns to consciousness.

“Are you okay?” I ask quietly.

Devin is nice, unlike some of the other people I’ve fought. A couple of them have even tried to attack me after that fact, men and women letting their injured pride dictate their actions, but I get the feeling Devin’s a good man, because he takes my offered hand.

“I lose,” he says, blinking quickly as he gets his bearings, giving me half a smile. “You can pack a punch, kid.”

A ghost of a smile is on my lips. “I guess. I didn’t hit you too hard, did I?”

He shakes his head, his eyes laughing. In another life, I would’ve liked to be friends with him. He seems cool. “No, I’m not that fragile. I’ll admit, I thought I had it in the bag when I saw you, but…” he shrugs. “I guess even I have some things to learn.”

I open my mouth to respond, half-way enjoying the conversation, but Jacob’s barked order startles me from my thoughts.

Maybe Devin sees the way the blood drains from my face. Maybe he doesn’t. Either way, his eyes are darker when I turn to wish him farewell.

“Ice, then heat,” I recommend with a wave, grabbing my shoes and sweatshirt as I make my way over to Melissa and Jacob. Troy is there, beaming.

“I knew you had it in you!” He says, clapping me on my injured shoulder, ignoring my wince at the commendation. “Good man, Peter. Rest up tomorrow, okay? We’ll set you up with another fight in a couple days.”

“A pleasure as always, Troy,” Melissa says with all the grace of a ruthless businesswoman, pale lips drawn in a shark’s smile. “Any time you have any more impromptu fights, let us know. Peter’s happy to help whenever he can.”

 _Yeah. Peter’s always here to help_ , I think bitterly, but I stay quiet.

A few more pleasantries signal an end to the conversation, and we leave.

I feel just a little bit more of my remaining existence etched into the floor of the ring, leaving me much colder than the snow at my feet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ:
> 
> If you’re identifying with anything Peter has been saying or feeling, if you feel lonely or depressed or tired all the time with no enjoyment from your daily life, I absolutely urge you to seek help or support if you haven’t already. You are valued, and you are enough, no matter your situation. This is the phone number for the National Suicide Prevention Hotline:
> 
> 1-800-273-8255
> 
> This is the Depression Hotline:
> 
> 630-482-9696
> 
> There are other numbers for Domestic and Sexual Abuse, Eating Disorders, or LGBTQ+ issues, and several other numbers for your particular issue. These are American numbers, but I’m sure other countries have similar resources. Your trauma is valid, and your deserve support, no matter your situation or circumstances. 
> 
> I don’t think I said this in the first chapter, but this is going to be a pretty dark story, especially for the first few chapters. The Avengers come in a little later, around Chapter 4, but fret not! They’re MCs, too. Just a warning. I’d much rather you not read if this will trigger any uncomfortable thoughts. Stay safe and well :)

I hitch my bag over my shoulder, keeping my head down and my hood up as I walk quickly through the crowded hallways, trying not to draw attention.

My shoulder has healed overnight, but I’m bone tired, and I don’t want to be here. I think about skipping, but then I think about what will happen when the fosters find out I’ve skipped, and it’s easily enough to dissuade me from the notion. I shiver.

I’m not looking where I’m going, so it’s easy for me to miss the foot that flies out in front of me, my spidey sense buzzing frantically. I stumble a little, trying to regain my footing after avoiding the glossy Doc Martin, ignoring the snickers of laughter to my right as I continue on.

“Assholes,” I breathe, tucking my hood tighter over my head as I continue.

At least I like this class. I miss Midtown, I miss MJ and Ned and my teachers, but Ms. Yates’ English class is surprisingly entertaining. I’m not much for English, but she makes it fun.

“Morning, Peter,” she greets as I come through the door, an exasperated smile on her face as she nods to the hood. “You know the rules.”

I blush and brush the hood back, running a hand through my hair. I need to cut it. “Sorry. Good morning.”

I think Ms. Yates might suspect something’s wrong with me, because she’s asked me twice to stay after class to ask if I’m alright, if I’m eating enough, if things at home are okay. I have no doubt that she’d report the situation if I had any visible injuries, but they’ve always healed overnight.

I always assure her that everything is fine, because I don’t have another option, but that fact that she cares so much is very, very comforting.

I slip into my seat in the back and put my head down, closing my eyes for the last couple minutes of transition before the bell rings, signaling the start of class. Ms. Yates’ voice starts up, energetic as ever, but I can’t lift my head. I just want to sleep.

I don’t sleep well at their house. I’m always afraid of letting my guard down around them, and there’s no lock on my door. When I can sleep, I have nightmares, and they’re frequent and awful. I catch naps in class and around the city when I can.

I must doze off, because the sharp whine of the bell starts me from sleep, and I fumble upright, watching as my classmates hastily pack their things.

“Finish Hamlet over the weekend, alright? There may or may not be a quiz on Monday,” Ms. Yates calls to the chattering teenagers.

I sigh through my nose and sluggishly pick up my bag, heading for the door behind my classmates.

“Peter?” Mr. Yates says, sitting back against her desk as I turn, students brushing by me. “You don’t usually sleep in class, honey. Is everything okay?”

I blink remaining sleep from my eyes, feeling bad. She’s so nice, and she cares about me, and…I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize that. “Everything’s fine, thanks. I just didn’t sleep well.”

Her eyes narrow, her face pinched in worry, but she smiles anyways. “Okay. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

I smile, waving. “Thank you.”

I take naps throughout the day. Some of the teachers care, but most of them don’t. Even though I’m grateful to be allowed to sleep, I dearly miss Midtown, because those teachers cared about whether you slept or not. They cared about whether you _learned_ or not, and they wanted you to succeed.

When the bell finally rings at the end of the day, it’s a wonderful blessing, and I’m out the doors almost before it’s finished ringing.

I have a little extra money, and I don’t want to go back yet, so I go to Mr. Delmar’s. I haven’t been by in a while—since before. I miss his cat Murph, and I miss the kind, amiable man who doesn’t complain when I want my sandwich squished flat.

The subway is crowded, but it’s quiet enough that I can close my eyes and rest on the way. I wonder why I’m so tired. I know it’s physical, I know I’m not sleeping nearly enough, but…my body is constantly heavy, despite my strength. I constantly feel like rolling out of bed and getting dressed and being forced to face another day will be my unraveling. It feels like the weight of the world has latched onto my shoulders and is pressing me into the earth.

 _This will be good for you_ , my social worker had assured me when I’d pleaded not to be taken from my childhood home, from my school friends and my apartment neighbors who actually cared for me. _Really. I think a fresh start is just what you need_.

He doesn’t know anything about what I need. He’d done it with good intentions, but the path to hell is full of them, and if I am anywhere, it’s hell.

The subway rocks to a stop underground, and I quickly exit onto the platform, dragging myself up the stairs with little of my usual energy.

I’m starting to scare myself, but I don’t think about it. I can’t think about it. I’m too tired.

“Peter? Is that you, kid?”

I approach the familiar, dingy counter with a thin, surprisingly genuine smile, and nod. “Hi, Mr. Delmar.”

He surprises me by coming around the counter and giving me a big hug. “Peter, I haven’t seen you in months! I was worried something had happened,” he says, pulling back, his eyes scrutinizing as he looks at me. I have my hood up, hoping the shadows will hide my pale face.

“Um…yeah,” I say, holding the straps of my backpack. “I…uh, my aunt and uncle died in an… accident.” The lie is bitter. “I had to…to go into foster care, and move across the city. I haven’t been out this way in a while.”

The words taste like ash, and I grip my backpack straps harder. I look down.

Mr. Delmar’s eyes widen and fall at the same time, and they fill with genuine sympathy, and grief. I knew he really liked Aunt May, and he was fond of Uncle Ben, too. “I’m so sorry, Peter. I…I wish I’d known, I could’ve helped.”

I shrug, feeling guilty that it’s taken me so long to inform the man, but with everything else…it just slipped my mind. “It’s okay. It was…there was just a lot going on. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Whatever you want today, it’s on me, alright? Just the usual?”

I think about saying no, and insisting that I pay, but besides Ms. Yates, it feels like it’s been a long time since anyone was kind to me without expecting something in return. “That…would be great. Thank you.”

He lets me sit in the cramped little back room while I wait, holding Murph, who lounges in my arms, tail flicking lazily. To my surprise, when he comes back with my sandwich, a huge drink, and my favorite chips, he sits down with me.

He sees my questioning glance, and smiles. “Julio can handle the customers for now, and I’ll go help him if he needs it. I want to see how you’re doing.”

I give Murph one last scratch and set the cat down, and he rolls onto my foot, lounging. I take a timid bite of the squashed sandwich, and the smell and the taste immediately conjure memories of after-school snacks and fun conversations, or afternoons with May and Ben at one of the outdoor patio tables. I’d loved those afternoons.

I feel my eyes fill with tears.

“Oh, kid,” Mr. Delmar says, eyes filling with poignant pain as I start to cry in front of him, putting my sandwich down before I drop it.

I don’t know why I’m crying. I don’t know why I’m falling apart in the tiny stock room of this sandwich place. I don’t know why it feels so difficult to stop. I don’t want to stop. I don’t know why the sandwich seems to be the breaking point after two months of keeping everything locked down tight in a steel box. I don’t know what’s happening.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.

“I m-miss them,” I stammer, shoving the heels of my palms into my eye sockets, feeling Mr. Delmar scoot forward and put an arm around my shoulders. “I miss th-them so m-much. A-a-and…and my foster p-parents… _suck_. They’re…they’re _awful_ , Mr. Delmar, and I _h-h-hate_ them, and I hate that _house_ , and…I miss you, a-and my friends, and my school, and…”

I can’t keep the stuttered confession going, breaking down as buried sobs burst forth with Vesuvian might, completely unraveling me. I sob, and cry, for my old life and my family and myself, and it _hurts_. And all Mr. Delmar can do is rub my back and whisper that it’s okay when it’s very clearly not.

Nothing is okay at all. I wonder if the whole world isn’t okay. It’s hard to imagine that the world is still moving around me when everything I know has been utterly shattered and crudely taped together with promises of a better future.

It’s cruel to think the world can spin on so seamlessly when my life has been torn to shreds.

But it does.

…

Mr. Delmar asks if they’re hurting me. I shake my head.

He asks again. I shake my head.

He sighs, and I cry.

I stay until the sun goes down and Mr. Delmar locks up. I’m late. They’re going to be mad, but I don’t have a fight tonight, so hopefully it won’t be too bad. Jacob said his dealer was coming today. Hopefully he’ll be higher than a kite and oblivious to my absence.

Mr. Delmar gives me his personal number, and some food to go, saying I’m too skinny. I don’t know how he can tell with my baggy hoodie, but maybe my gaunt face is enough to give it away. He says to call him if I need to talk, or if I need a place to stay, or just someone to come get me. He says day or night, rain or shine.

The number is a lifeline that I will probably never use, but it’s so comforting to feel it in my hand, anyways.

He gives me another hug and says to come by any time.

I say I’ll try. I know I probably won’t.

I get back an hour later, and thankfully, my suspicions are correct. Jacob is floating somewhere around Mars. I vaguely entertain the thought of him overdosing, and though I won’t wish death on anyone, the thought is scarily comforting for a brief moment.

Melissa is buzzed, but sober enough to recognize my tardiness. She narrows her eyes and waves the bottle in my direction. “You’re late.”

A biting comment is on my lips. “I’m sorry,” I say meekly, instead, and I hate myself just a little more for it.

“You will be tomorrow,” she says, taking another drink from the vodka bottle, freshly purchased. It’s almost half-empty.

“There’s a fight tomorrow,” I remind her, remembering Troy’s words. They don’t hurt me on days of the fights. They don’t want to jeopardize my chances of winning.

Her eyes darken. “Fine. Don’t think I’ll forget about it. Go to your room.”

I do.

My room is actually kind of nice, since they’d set me up in it before the drinking and drugs had really gotten bad. At least, it’s clean, and functional. The paint is peeling a little along the baseboards, and some of the wooden furniture is scuffed, but it’s nice.

I have a text from Ned, asking how I am. He doesn’t know anything. He can’t help me, and I know that. I also know that if he knew, he’d try to help, and he’d just get caught in the middle. I can’t let another person I care about get hurt because of me, so…I keep him in the dark.

I answer with a vague ‘Good. Tired. You?’ and turn my phone off.

I sink onto the bed and fall onto my back, letting my bag fall beside me as I stare at the popcorn ceiling, watching the fan blur above me.

I wonder how I’m supposed to survive three more years in this house. I wonder if one day, someone will find out what’s happening, and they’ll try to move me. I wonder if the new place will be better or worse. I wonder if before they can, I’ll be in an Oscorp laboratory, screaming and crying.

I shut my eyes tight, fear and horror overwhelming me.

I take off my jeans and pull on some flannel pants, but I leave on my sweatshirt. It’s my favorite. It used to be Ben’s.

I curl up on the bed, not bothering to brush my teeth, or my hair, or to shower, or wash my face. I just want to sleep.

Eventually, plagued with racing thoughts and dark, dark ideas that scare me more than I care to admit, I do.

**A/N: Eh-heh. Yes. Quite dark. Will get darker. Then will get better. Promise.**


	3. Chapter 3

It’s Saturday, and while I hate the school, and the kids, and most of the teachers, I miss the excuse to get out of the god-awful house.

I roll out of bed around nine, and while I want to sleep more, while I want to bury my head in the sheets like a turtle in its shell and pretend the world outside is waiting for me to be ready, I know I can’t. I grab my backpack with my homework and think about walking around some, finding somewhere to settle down and do my work. I leave on Uncle Ben’s hoodie.

Even after getting out and onto the streets, I’m fidgety, my nerves shuddering as I think of the fight tonight and the punishment that will inevitably follow.

Melissa had informed me this morning, words biting through the slur of what I hope was an awful hangover, that they’d arranged a special fight tonight. Troy says he’s the reigning champion at another club, and he’s rough. Apparently he’s seriously injured more than one competitor. Seriously.

I’m nervous. I’ve won all my fights, but none of them have been particularly skilled, in martial arts or otherwise. Apparently this man has the training and ruthlessness to put men twice my size in the hospital, and even with my abilities, I can feel the buzz of distant fear humming in my blood, like an electric shock on repeat.

I wander for a while. I don’t want to go back to Mr. Delmar’s so soon; it will be too much solace in two days, and it will make going back that much harder. That’s also why, while I think about calling Ned, I don’t. The thought of forgetting for a little while only to be slammed back into unforgiving reality seems cruel, so I allow myself to wallow in solitude.

I go to an abandoned building I found on the edge of Brooklyn, catching multiple subway lines to get there. The fosters’ place is on the edge of the Bronx, so it’s a fair distance; taking the subways, it takes upwards of an hour.

It’s not in the best part of town, but it’s not like I can’t protect myself. I like it because on the top floor, the big windows open wide, and I can sit and let my feet dangle and watch the hubbub on the streets and the bustle of life below me. I can close my eyes and imagine I’m among them, Ned and MJ at my sides and May and Ben waiting for me at home.

I flip up my hood and open my eyes, letting my feet swing in the soft breeze.

“Long time no see,” a familiar voice says behind me.

I turn, and smile. “Hey, Miles.”

Miles is a good guy. He’s my age, maybe a little younger; I never asked. He comes to sit beside me, shoving his hands in his pockets. He’s cool. I’d infringed on his territory—this was his spot first—but he’d said he was happy to share, and I’d been using it as a place of solitude since. I try to make the trip once a week or so, and I’ve seen him a few times.

“How are you?” He asks, glancing at me. Concern is hovering in his eyes, but I see familiar uncertainty preventing further questions. I see that look a lot, nowadays.

“I’m okay,” I assure, shrugging slightly. He doesn’t know much. I don’t know him well, so I don’t feel comfortable dumping everything about my life on him, but he’s nice to hang out with. “You?”

“I’m good,” he says, eyes sincere. “Boarding school’s kind of a hassle. I told you about my scholarship, right?”

“Right, yeah,” I say with a smile. “Congratulations again. Not your speed?”

He scoffs, smiling a little bitterly. “The academics are. It’s interesting. I just don’t like the people.”

I nod. I’ve had a lot of conversations with him, about science and math and mechanics and engineering, and he’s smart. It’s been a nice change of pace to talk to someone who speaks my language. However, I don’t peg him as the kind of guy to get along with the kids who pay full price. Despite how much I miss it, I had a similar problem at Midtown.

“Sorry to hear it,” I say noncommittally.

He shrugs, and I close my eyes and let the wind rustle through my hair. It’s peaceful here. I like it here.

“You seem kind of tired,” he says finally, voice hesitant. “And really pale.”

I shrug, opening my eyes, letting the moment of futile serenity shatter. “I didn’t eat breakfast.” It’s not a lie. “And I didn’t sleep well.” That’s not a lie, either.

Miles narrows his eyes, but sighs. “Okay.”

My phone rings.

I think Miles sees the way I jump, the way my pale face becomes paler, but he doesn’t say anything as I fish it out.

“Hel—”

“Where the hell are you?” Jacob’s voice is loud in my ear, and I reflexively angle my head away from the receiver, wincing at the volume. My enhanced hearing doesn’t help. “Fight’s been moved up to this afternoon. Be here in an hour.”

I pause, fear buzzing in my arteries. “I’m too far. I’ll need at least an hour and a half, maybe two.” I keep my voice steady for Miles’ sake more than my own. I feel his eyes on me anyways, and inconspicuously turn down the volume on my phone, hoping he hasn’t heard.

“Son of a _bitch_. Dammit, do I need to keep you on a leash, too? I don’t care how you do it, get your ass back here.”

The call disconnects.

I take ten seconds to steady myself and steady my nerves and my hands before I put my phone in my pocket, looping my arms through the straps of my backpack. “Sorry,” I say, not looking at him. “Have to run.”

“Peter?” He says as I turn to go, glancing at me. The concern is still hovering. “Is…is everything okay?”

Miles’ dark eyes are darker in worry, his mouth in a firm, flat line.

I feel my sanity and my will and my mind stretch like a tenuous string, the width of a hair. It’s inside me, coiled tight in panic and shuddering, repressed terror that I hide inside my lungs in the form of gasping breaths. It’s the tension in my shoulders and hands and feet as fight or flight constantly wars inside of me. It’s the brittle hold on a bleak future when my mind and heart are warring for dominance.

It’s a tenuous thread of uncertainty and longing, and I feel it wind tight at the words. I feel it shudder. I feel it fray.

“Everything’s fine,” I say.

And I leave.

The thread is still intact, barely. It means little.

…

I’d thought the fight from two nights ago was big.

I’m wrong.

I have never seen so many people in the destitute building, and I suddenly am very, very uncomfortable with the prospect of the fight. Bodies are packed like sardines on the make-shift stadium seats, but others spill over into the crevices and shadows, packed in tight around the ring. The only space absent of jammed spectators is the area in front of the betting zone and Troy’s office, where three bouncers are keeping it clear.

Jacob has to grab my arm to drag me through the crowd, and I shrink further into my hoodie, fighting the urge to tear my bicep from his bruising grip.

Melissa walks behind me, in her best business casual clothes with sunglasses and a lot of makeup. She looks like this when she’s trying to impress someone. I don’t like this.

I don’t like this, and I want to go home. Not to the fosters’, but home, to my little dingy apartment in Queens. I don’t want to let Jacob hurt me anymore, I don’t want to let Melissa belittle me anymore, I don’t want to let Troy use me. I don’t want to let these men and women hurt me. I don’t want to hurt them.

I don’t want to be here.

But I have no other options, so all I can do is my feet in a bizarre, macabre rhythm, my heart pounding in time like a drum leading to an execution.

I realize my spider sense is buzzing, aching, and I know this is going to be a bad fight.

“Glad you could make it,” Troy says with a brilliant smile, but I immediately see something off. In his eyes is a shadowed hint of worry, and I’ve never seen it. He knows how I fight, and he’s always had confidence in me. It’s stupid, greedy confidence, but confidence.

There is none of that tonight.

“Your opponent is named ‘Crush.’ Stage name, anyhow. No one knows his real name; he won’t use it on the bets. He lives up to his namesake. His signature is to knock his opponents down and crush a bone to end the fight. Every time we try to reprimand him, he just gets more violent.”

My heart shudders in my throat, and I swallow convulsively, looking down.

“He’ll be fine,” Jacob assures, and I wince as his fingers dig into my flesh, but the small sound is lost in the booming chaos of the crowd. “Won’t you?”

I nod, not at all confident.

Troy nods. The smile is still plastic. “Thought so! I have all the faith in the world, kiddo. You’re my money-maker, after all.”

I wonder if the lie tastes as bitter as it sounds.

With movements so stiff I think my joints crackled, I extract myself from Jacob’s grip and weave through the crowd, pulling my hood tight and ducking my head. I changed out of Ben’s hoodie at home—I don’t ever risk it getting ripped, or bloodied. I’m in a spare.

Nevertheless, I take it off, and drape it over the chair; it’s too restricting. The familiar pattern is cruel and comforting as I take off my shoes and roll up my jeans and brush back my hair, preparing to duke it out with a stranger who likes to crush people’s bones.

The announcer starts talking, but I don’t listen to my stats. God knows I’ve heard them enough.

I glance around, wishing for my hoodie to hide in. I want to disappear. I want to fade away from this…this situation, this existence. I catch sight of Devin, who’s watching me in worry. He gives a tight smile and a brief nod, but I see the concern in his eyes. Perhaps he knows the opponent.

I think maybe people are overreacting. Maybe they’re so worried because, despite my record, I’m a small kid. Maybe it won’t be as bad as they say.

But my opponent comes out, and the crowd roars, and my breath catches.

My sixth sense goes _ballistic_.

Usually, it’s a tame throb in the base of my neck. It’s a gentle warning or an insistent reminder.

Now, it feels like knives are spearing through every open pore in my body, and my every limb is locked tight.

The man is big. Bigger than Devin, vertically and horizontally. His arms and legs are ripped, bulging muscles tight against the fabric of his clothes. His bare feet and forearms are riddled with thick veins, coiling up in blue streams to disappear under his shirt, and his neck is the same. I force my eyes to rise to his face, and flinch.

His expression is set in a grim scowl that would scare a Grim Reaper back into its void, with small, beady eyes that spell hatred and pain, thin, pale lips that reveal crooked teeth, and a bent nose that’s been broken one too many times. His head is shaved, and his ears are bigger than normal.

I swallow.

I don’t hear the announcer order us into the ring, and it takes a demanding shove from Jacob to realize the crowd is watching me expectantly where I’ve frozen. Inhaling shaprly, blushing furiously in a combination of embarrassment and adrenaline, I stumble into the ring.

I can’t look up past his chest.

“I’m going to crush you like tin foil,” the man growls, and I flinch, because there is no humor. There’s no teasing lilt, or exaggeration.

He means to crush me like a bug. I ball my hands into fists.

I can’t back away, and I can’t back down. I can’t escape. The only way out is through.

I close my eyes, and take a steadying breath.

Forget about how big he is. Forget about his words, his face, his mannerisms. Forget about the rumor. This is just another fight.

And I _win_ fights.

I open my eyes, and look into his. They’re black. I can barely distinguish iris from pupil.

He doesn’t like that.

“Are both parties ready?”

I nod, not looking away from him. Perhaps staring him down will rattle him. It’s a pointless hope, but I’m willing to pull out whatever weapon I can, even weak, psychological tricks.

He gives a grunt of affirmation.

“And… _fight_!”

The buzzer sounds.

I’m falling backwards.

I have enhanced speed, and strength, and my reflexes are fast enough to snatch a fly out of thin air. I can stick to walls and climb them, using nothing but my own strength. I can bend and contort like a gymnast on steroids, and it’s instrumental in dodging punches. I have a _sixth sense_ that alerts me to when I’m in danger.

I barely see his fist move.

I stumble back, heat and pain and blood on my face and in my heart, and I barely twist to avoid the next blow, stumbling. The crowd roars, and I feel like a caged animal in a zoo, on display between four invisible walls. I’m trapped with an angry wolf out for blood, and the only escape is to win.

But I can’t. I can’t. I _can’t_.

Another hit glances off my shoulder, but unlike Devin’s hit, it _hurts_. It’s _so_ painful, and I cry out and stumble back, and then he’s on top of me again, and suddenly there’s more blood.

And I realize all at once that it was so stupid of me to assume I’d be the only one with powers in these fights.

I’ve heard about the X-Men, Charles Xavier’s school, but I hear little about mutants out of that context. It’s an article here or there in the news, talking about damages caused by their powers or, perhaps, how someone used their powers to save a life. It’s a mix of good and bad.

I have obviously met the bad.

Of course, it wouldn’t have made a difference. I still would’ve had to fight.

But now, in pain and dodging hits of steel for my life and wondering why me, why is it that I’m the one here in this god-awful place out of all the kids in New York, I wonder if it would’ve been better if I’d thought of this very important detail.

Too late now.

I land a hit out of sheer luck and desperation, but I’m so terrified and flustered and clumsy that it ricochets harmlessly off his chest with just a slight tightening of his face, out of frustration rather than pain.

And then his fist slams into my face again, and the world is dissolving in bright spurts of colorful darkness, and I’m falling, and I’m fading.

But Crush doesn’t let me fade.

I would have gladly hit the mat and lay there for ten seconds. I would have gladly surrendered and taken whatever punishment from Jacob and Melissa, even Troy. I would have gladly given anything to get out of this hellish, invisible square, boxing me in with expectations and terror with a threat that I can’t beat.

But I don’t fade, and I don’t win.

Suddenly he’s sitting on my chest, and his hands are around my throat, and I know why his name is Crush, because my throat and windpipe and trachea are being _crushed_ and _I can’t breathe_.

The fading world slams back into technicolor clarity as the realization slams into me, and I’m thrashing and fighting, and this can’t be _legal_ , where—where’s the referee, where’s _everyone_? I think the crowd may be roaring but maybe it’s the blood pounding in my ears and rushing in my head and I can’t breathe and I can’t and I can’t—

And I’m back in a zoo, on display, locked in a fight with a much larger, much more feral animal, but I realize that I have something much more dangerous, and much more feral, and much more terrifying.

Desperation.

I can’t breathe, and it hurts, and it’s the last thing I think before my vision goes white.

I can’t tell how long I’m in the white. I can feel pain pulsing somewhere, some rhythmic pounding that sounds like the executioner’s drums, but it’s different. And maybe there’s shouting now, or maybe it’s still the blood in my head. Maybe it’s the beating of my heart thudding so erratically that it sounds like the disjointed stamping of the crowd.

But suddenly, the white fades, and I hear utter silence. And the white is replaced not by black, but red.

Red. Red everywhere. And I look down and suddenly _I’m_ the one on top, and beneath me is Crush’s mangled body, and my fists are bloody and raw, and I feel my knuckles broken, the bones in my hand _wrecked_.

His eyes are vacant. His mouth is slack. The room is silent.

Hands are on me, dragging me back off of him, and I think it’s Devin. It sounds like Devin.

He’s dead.

Devin wraps his arms around my chest, and it hurts, and I look down, and I’m red, too. But it’s not mine. Some of it is. Most of it isn’t.

His eyes are vacant.

Devin is saying something in my ear, and suddenly the world is a lot louder, but the crowd is still quiet. They’re shocked silent. Like me.

His mouth is slack.

Devin’s arms feel like chains, now, instead of the comfort they’re supposed to give. Or maybe he hates me, because he’s dead.

Crush is dead.

I crushed him.

I killed him.

I…

I—

The world is white again, but it’s a sharp shadow of blurred translucence over the red, and it’s panic-induced. I can’t breathe. I’m wheezing. I’m whispering, but no one can hear me.

I killed him.

I thrash from Devin’s grip, and I finally escape the invisible walls of the zoo, of my display, and like any animal, I flee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I told you it would get darker. Lol. Whoops. 
> 
> That was…I won’t say that was FUN to write, but honestly, I was super excited to try out such a dark mentality and see what happened. Hope you enjoyed reading it! Even though it was dark. You know what I mean.
> 
> Also! MILES! He’s not a main character, but I thought I’d give him a little cameo, bc he doesn’t get enough love. He also doesn’t have powers. I haven’t decided if I’ll bring him back or not. We’ll see :)
> 
> Let me know what you thought if you want :) thanks so much for reading


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ: There is a (kind of) suicide attempt in this chapter. Definitely a lot of obvious ideations. So I want to warn you, if that will make you uncomfortable. I know I put a couple hotline numbers last chapter, but here they are again, if you need then: 
> 
> National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255
> 
> Depression Hotline: 630-482-9696
> 
> You are valued, you are enough, and my PMs are always open.

I don’t know how long I run.

People tried to stop me from leaving, but I pushed them aside like bowling pins, tearing through the crowded halls as quickly as I could. My breath comes in short pants, my throat swollen and aching and tight, but I can’t think about that, because—because—

 _I killed him_.

 _I crushed him_.

 _I crushed Crush_.

A morbid giggle, based entirely on bubbling insanity and the absurdity of the situation, stills in the throat, and when I try to swallow it down, it hurts so badly that I have to stop. I cough for a long time, and when I’m done, I cry.

I cry, and I cry, because—because I can’t go back, can I? Not to the club, not to Melissa and Jacob’s, not to anywhere. There’s nowhere to go.

I’ll be arrested. I’ll—I’ll be handed over to Oscorp, or—or _worse_. They’ll hurt me. They’ll strap me down and _hurt me_ and I don’t want to be hurt anymore.

I cry, and when I finish crying, I run, because it’s the only thing that keeps the cold and the hurt away.

…

When I finally can’t run anymore, I find myself on a rooftop.

My body aches, my lungs hurt, and every breath _burns_ , but the numbness has receded, and it’s all that matters. My feet swing off the building as I sit on the ledge, staring at the blood on my hands, on my jeans. Somehow, on my bare feet, too. It stains my shirt, and I think, in my panic as I cried, I got it on my face, and in my hair. It’s all over me. Blazing red proof of what I’d done.

I try to remember, but I can’t. All I know is that once my vision was clouded in stark white panic, I’d heard the thumping, which I now realize was my fists, hitting Crush. I stare at my knuckles, swollen and purple. They hurt.

I’m covered in red, and it’s not all mine, and that _hurts_. That hurts worse.

I raise my head, ignoring my burning, blurring eyes, and stare out across the skyline, lit with streetlights and technicolor billboards and huge, promotional flatscreens that dot the buildings. I love my city. After everything, it’s been the only constant. It’s big and crowded and it _reeks_. Most people on the street are sizing you up for a pickpocket.

On these nights, though, when the sky is clear and faint stars twinkle through the smog and the lights stretch out into nothing…it’s almost peaceful.

I look down at the pavement from my twenty-story perch, my feet swaying a little in the breeze. I’m too high up for anyone to see me past the glare of all the lights, but I can see them. People like dolls and toy cars moving around in practiced haste.

In a sudden, bursting idea, I think about what will happen if I jump.

There’s nowhere to go anymore, and there’s no one to go to. Devin watched me murder someone, and my connection with him is so tenuous it’s barely more than a name. Mrs. Yates will be…disappointed. I know she will be. She’ll be really upset, but I’m sure—no matter how horrible it is, I’m sure I’m not the first of her students to go this way, and I’m sure I won’t be the last. Mr. Delmar…no one will tell him. Maybe that’s better. I’ll just…disappear again, and would that really be so bad?

Melissa and Jacob will miss the money I make them, but they will be glad to be rid of me. The kids in school will laugh. They’ll say they’d seen it coming. My other teachers will feel bad, but it will be a fleeting burst of disappointment—I’ll be nothing more than another troubled youth, another statistic buried in years of horrific data. I wonder if Miles will notice when I stop coming, and if he’ll even know what happened.

…Ned. I wonder if he’ll be notified. I’m not sure how, but…I hope he’ll know there’s nothing he could have done. I don’t have my phone. If I did, I’d like to call him one more time. I have my wallet. I’ll be buried with my family.

I feel hot tears build in my eyes, and I swallow, and it burns. I close my eyes, lights burning through my eyelids as I try not to cry. I thought I’d cried myself out, but I suppose not. I wonder how dehydrated I must be now. I wonder why it doesn’t matter.

If I jump…from this height…it won’t hurt. It won’t hurt.

I’ll just…stop.

How bad could that be?

I’d killed May and Ben with my…my _stupid_ , petty selfishness, my recklessness. They’d died coming to look for me because I’d stormed out on them after…such a stupid disagreement. How could one mistake that…that _millions_ of kids like me make every day result in…in such a disastrous end? In a horrible end to everything I knew?

And now I’m…now I’m a murderer. I know it wasn’t my intention, I know—I know I didn’t mean to. Logically, I _know_. But—but I’d killed him.

And…and I didn’t want to go to jail. I know I deserve it, I know that’s what should happen, but—but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life locked up, at the mercy of more people who would hurt me.

I am so, so tired of being hurt, and I just want to…to rest.

I should have let Crush finish the job.

Instead, I’ve finished him.

Absently, I brush a bloody thumb tenderly over my throat, wincing at the ache. I’ve been here for long enough that it’s healed some, maybe enough to talk a little, but it’s still burning.

I don’t think anyone will…will have their worlds end if I die. They’ll get over me.

But…but am I really ready to die? Am I really ready to…to end it all?

There are other options. I can run away, but…Melissa and Jacob will do anything to get me back. I’ll be hunted until I turn eighteen, maybe even after that. Will it be worth it, barely surviving, running from hell into purgatory? I can’t get emancipated, and I _can’t_ let them touch me again with a belt, or a bottle, or their fists. I will never go to another fight club.

I can’t go to CPS. Before they can put me somewhere else, Melissa and Jacob will have handed me over to Oscorp. And if CPS manages to put me somewhere else, who’s to say it won’t be the same? Who’s to say it won’t be _worse_? Who’s to say that I won’t find myself on another rooftop, contemplating this again?

It feels like…like there isn’t anything else to do.

I look down. The sight is dizzying, and entrancing. My breath hitches. Naked fear spears through me, but with it is a sense of utter calm. Like the ripping wind of a hurricane and the glassy, smooth water of the eye.

I wonder which will win.

_Am I really going to do this?_

And just as I am about to shift myself forward, just a little, I hear what sounds like…engines?

“Hey, kid,” a voice says behind me. I turn sluggishly, a little shocked that anyone else would be up here, and _holy freaking crap that’s Iron Man_. “What’s up?”

“Uh…” I reply intelligibly. “Uh…you’re Tony Stark…?”

The fear is replaced with a stark ( **hehe** ) sense of utter astonishment, and my mind is suddenly blank with the absurdity of the situation.

This…this is the man I’ve looked up to for _years_. The man I’ve _idolized_ since the Stark Expo, when he’d said _three words_ to me. And…and now he’s…talking to me?

“In the flesh,” the man says lightly, coming out of the suit as it dissolves around him. He walks forward a few steps, appearing careless and casual, but I can see his brow creasing a little. “Mind if I join you?”

“Um…sure,” I say, scooting over a little to make room for him, even though he has the entire damn ledge. _Nice work, Peter, you’re officially making a fool of yourself in front of Tony freaking Stark_.

He sits down next to me, far enough away so that if I stretch my arm out I’ll be a hand short of touching him, but close enough to where he can grab me if I jump. “Nice night for city-gazing,” the billionaire comments, leaning back on his hands, eyeing me carefully. “What are you up to?”

I can’t…I can’t even fathom the situation, so I let myself pretend it’s a normal, casual conversation. I think that’s the only way I’m going to get through this without combusting.

I turn back to the skyline, still starstruck. I’m unsure how to respond. “Just kind of looking. It’s nice tonight. No clouds.” My voice is raspy, and it aches, but I hope he doesn’t notice.

Tony Stark nods appreciatively, and looking at him again sends another spike of…of _insane_ surprise through me. “You’re right.” A pause. “What are you going to do after you finish looking?”

 _Damn_. Of course he wouldn’t stop to just…say hi. He knows what’s going on, and…and I don’t know what to do. I wasn’t even sure I was going to do it, and now he’s asking about it, and…and I don’t know what to do.

I let out a deep sigh, my breath fogging in front of me. I put my hands in my pockets, just noticing how cold they are. I don’t know if I really want to tell him what I’m thinking, but from the look on his face, he already knows. “I don’t know yet.”

It’s a common answer to a lot of questions, but I think Tony Stark and I both know what it means. My face flushes in embarrassment even in the cold, and I look away from him. It’s dark. He can’t see the blood, or my injuries, but…but I think he can hear the ones he can’t see. The scars on my mind and my heart that are so close to taking over me.

_He’s a billionaire. He’s a hero. Why…why is he bothering with me?_

He nods thoughtfully. “Do you want to talk about it? Why you feel like this is the only option?”

_Why is he bothering with me? I’m nothing to him. He should just go._

I shake my head. “It’s not the only option, just…the easiest. The best one, for a lot of reasons, and a lot of people.”

_Why are you still talking?? Get him to leave! Then you can finish it!_

The voice scares me. The voice is insistent, and it’s coming from the darkest parts of myself, and while I agree, I don’t want to hear it said. It scares me.

Tony Stark, despite the nervousness coursing through me, doesn’t scare me.

“I doubt your family would say that.” He says immediately, angling his body to look right at me. I don’t look back. “Whatever you’re doing this for, I promise, it gets better.”

 _It does. It does, right after you scoot forward just a little_.

Now I’m really scared.

Instead, I focus on Mr. Stark. He’s not as…as intimidating as I thought he’d be. I smile sadly. He has no clue. He means well, but he’s spouting lines from every suicide prevention pamphlet there is. He’s nothing like the tabloids say. I wonder if he’s just flustered by the situation. Maybe he hasn’t dealt with anything like this, either.

“I, um…don’t have one,” I sum up, fiddling with the hem of my t-shirt. I’m really cold. “I live in…in a foster home.”

Mr. Stark gets quiet, and I wonder what I’m doing. He should leave. _I_ should leave.

“That sounds rough,” he says finally. “I feel that. A little. Spent a few years on my own after my parents died. It’s shit, isn’t it? Wait, I’m not supposed to say things like that in front of kids.”

I have to smile, even laugh a little. My throat aches, my shoulder aches, but the pain in my heart has lessened the slightest bit.

He starts to say something else, but never gets the chance. One of those promotional spotlights passes by us, quickly, but enough to illuminate the blood on my clothes. The bruises on my neck. The startled expression on my face.

It’s enough.

“Hang on, is that blood?” Mr. Stark asks quickly, looking me up and down with clinical eyes. “And…and bruises? Those look bad, kid.”

 _Damn._ Lie. Thoughts spin in my head as quickly as I can think them, and I spout the first thing that comes to mind, stuttering a little. “I…I h-had a bad nose-blood earlier, and…uh…a few days ago some kids at school got, uh…a l-little rough.”

I’m _covered_ in blood. In a morbid twist of humor, I think I look like Carrie. And I had the audacity stupidity to say it came from a nosebleed.

Mr. Stark is quick to call me on it.

“I hate to burst your bubble, but I’m not as gullible as my previous love interests say I am,” Mr. Stark says, standing up and dusting himself off. I glance at him, unintentionally flinching as I have to look up at him, but I don’t think he notices.

“Look kid, I…I can’t in good conscience leave you here. You’re just a kid, and something’s obviously going on, and you’re bleeding—I think—and I get it if you don’t want to talk about it, but…”

Tony throws up his hands. “Shit, I wish Sam was here; he’s better at this.” Tony takes a collective breath, sounding much more flustered than the self-assured man I see on TV. “Will you come back with me to Avenger’s Compound? Just for a little while, so we can check you out, see how you’re feeling? You’d get to meet all the other Avengers. Kids like us, right?”

My jaw hits the rooftop, and my earlier shock is nothing compared to this. He wants to take me to the top-secret Avengers Compound thing everyone’s freaking out about? “Um…aren’t there security things? Like, background checks and stuff…? For all you know, I could be a Russian spy or something.”

Tony barks a laugh, and something warm squirms in my chest. “Sorry, that position’s taken. And I built it, and own it, so I can bring anyone I want. And you don’t look Russian.”

I look back at the city. _So. Kill myself in front of Tony freaking Stark, or meet the Avengers? He’d probably just catch my if I jumped, anyways, and then it would just be embarrassing._

That was…a really dark thought, and I shove it away, and I blink, because…because I’m scared. I’m scared to jump and I don’t want to die. And I’m scared to go with him because it’s so many unknowns.

And I don’t know why he’s doing this for me.

But…it’s the only option I have.

I take a shaky breath. I have nothing to lose, anyways.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “But I don’t want any doctors or anything. I just…”

Mr. Stark’s entire frame seems to deflate in relief, and I don’t know what to say or how to feel or what to do. “Okay. Okay, that’s good. That’s okay, we’ll deal with the doctor stuff when we get there, okay?”

I nod and scoot back from the ledge a little before standing up. I look at his suit and then at him. “You’re the expert, but I’m pretty sure that’s a one-seater.”

Mr. Stark laughs a little. “You’re funny, kid. I like that. Yeah, I’ll have to carry you, unless you’re hiding a jetpack somewhere”

Even in the freezing cold, my face burns, my frigid fingers curling into embarrassed fists. I can’t—he can’t touch me like that. Not—not after everything. He can’t be so close. I can’t—

“Uh, no. Sorry, Mr. Stark, thank you, but, uh, you really don’t have to—”

I am abruptly cut off when the suit folds around him and he picks me up like a sack of potatoes, gently but firmly curling his arms around my back and my knees. “Hang on tight; I’m not taking no for an answer.”

My entire body goes rigid in his arms, and I think about scrambling away, about just—just _getting away_ , but…but something about the friendly contact after so much pain and aggression is…surprisingly comforting.

And it hurts to think about it, but it’s really nice, and I haven’t felt it in so long. Mr. Delmar’s arm around my shoulders as I cried is the closest I’ve come in a long time, and…and this is really nice.

As I start to relax, he takes off, and amid the terror of feeling weightless and flying through the sky with nothing but his arms really securing me, I notice that even on that tall building, I’ve never had a view quite this beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hehe. Still very dark. Sorry. BUT NOW WE HAVE TONY! YAY!
> 
> Thank you guys so much for supporting me and this story, and I want you to know that I love and appreciate you, and you are valued, and you are enough, no matter your situation. Love you guys :) 
> 
> I'm StarStepper on ffnet, and my PMs are open if you need someone to talk to. Love you guys :D


	5. Chapter 5

After twenty minutes of gazing at the bright New York lights, trying to get over the fact that I’m literally sitting in the arms of my hero, and trying to come to terms with what I’d almost done, we touch down on the lush grass of Avengers Compound. My teeth are chattering, my toes are cold, and the dried blood is flaking off my clothes. I want a shower, and sleep.

And…and I want to know what’s happening. Because…Tony Stark just brought me to his _house_.

A fleeting thought invades my mind, and I consider telling him that it was me, at the Stark Expo. That I held onto his words, _nice work, kid_ , for years. They were a lifeline during months of solitude and years of scientific ambition.

Not now. But…maybe. Depending on…how I…handle everything else.

Mr. Stark sets me down gently on my feet, the suit retracting as he steps down with practiced ease, like this is a typical Tuesday for him. I can’t fathom the complexity of the science behind the suit, and I want to ask for the diagnostics, the blueprints, the—the _everything_.

But that part of my brain is a lone remnant of my mind, which is currently numb with cold, and shock, and fear, and a tidal wave of crushing, smothering _guilt_ that is becoming very hard to ignore.

“I think this was Mortal Kombat night,” Mr. Stark comments idly, opening the glass door and waiting for me to slip inside. I hesitate, my bare, blood-speckled feet seeming much too dirty to enter a literal superhero home base, but he gives me a look. I shuffle quietly in, and he slides the door shut behind us. “They’re all probably in the living room.”

I swallow, curling my frozen fingers into fists to preserve the warmth. “Who’s…who’s here?”

He glances at me, leading me to a kitchen. He flicks on the light and takes a couple things out of the cabinets. “Um…right now I think we have Steve, Bucky, Natasha, Clint, Sam…uh, Bruce, how could I forget my science bro…and I think Rhodey’s visiting. The others are off…I don’t know, dazzling Europe, or something. Thor’s dealing with a failed Asgardian coup d’état.”

He furrows his eyes in contemplation, still looking at me, and I shift uncomfortably. “What?” I ask finally.

“What do…what do kids eat?” He asks, glancing at the ingredients he’s taken down. Bread and butter. Eggs. “I’m out of practice with the smaller versions of us. I feel inadequate, and I don’t like that, so tell me what you like.” He pauses. “I might have…I don’t know, candy? Maybe pancake mix?”

I shrug, shifting on my feet. I’m cold. My throat hurts, and I want to wash the blood off. It’s itchy, and it stings, and it’s _not mine_. “Could I…” My voice breaks, and it’s only partially due to my throat. “Could I…shower? Please?”

He looks at me again, his eyes darkening in sympathy. “Shit. Oh, crap, shoot. Yeah. Of course. Sorry, I…don’t have any idea why I went straight to the kitchen. Some genius I am.”

I give him a tense, polite smile, and he sees me shiver. After a second of hesitation, he shrugs off his suit jacket and hands it to me.

I stumble back a step. “N-no, um…I can’t. I…” I look down, the lump in my throat becoming much to large to get the words out, but I squeak them out, somehow. “I don’t want to…t-to get…b-blood on it.”

Mr. Stark’s eyes screw up in belated concern, and he drapes his jacket on the counter. “Hm. Okay, fine. Let’s get you checked out, then we’ll get you warmed up and clean. Okay?”

I flinch, looking down. “I said…I s-said I didn’t want…any doctors.” I don’t. I don’t want them to see my—my powers, if they take blood or something. I don’t want them to see that I don’t have any marks on me to lead to this much blood. I don’t want to tell them that I—

I choke, leaning on the counter for support. Mr. Stark rushes forward, eyes pinched in concern, but I stumble back. He can’t touch me. He can’t—

_I’m a murderer_.

My swollen throat is nowhere near open enough to allow hyperventilation, but somehow, I manage. I sink to my knees, vacant eyes staring at the polished linoleum floor speckled with crusted burgundy flakes. My hand is fisted in the front of my shirt as I gasp, as I start to cry, because—

I can’t be here. I can’t be here, in this house of heroes, when I’m nothing but a murderer.

I try to scramble back, but hands take my shoulders, and I’m suddenly on the floor of the fosters’ living room, and they’re pinning me down as I hear the whistle of a belt and breaking glass and angry words accusing me of my crimes, and—and then there’s a scientist, and bright lights and cold tables and— _and—_

Strong arms wrap around me from behind, and they remind me of Devin’s from just a few hours ago. Strong and thick and unmoving and confused, but tight enough to stop my thrashing.

I hear someone’s garbled voice over the ringing in my ears, and I realize it’s my own.

“—lease, please, I’ll be good, I won’t do it again, _please_ , I promise—”

And then hands are on my face. It’s not the bruising grip I’m used to, the one that leaves faint purple blotches on my jaw. It’s calloused, warm hands on either side of my face, like Ben would get my attention after a nightmare. It’s warm.

I blink, and suddenly, Tony Stark’s face swims into focus.

He’s kneeling in front of me. I’m sitting back against someone’s chest, and _gigantic_ arms are pinning my arms at my sides, and—and they must be a mutant, or something, because I can’t move.

“Back with me?” Mr. Stark asks, his eyes pinched in overt concern.

I don’t know what’s happening.

I swallow, and it hurts, and I nod. “I…I-I—”

“It’s okay,” he says, taking his hands from my face and putting them on my shoulders. “It’s…it’s okay. Could…will you _please_ let us check you out?” His voice is unusually high in tension and concern. “Seriously, I—it would make me feel a lot better. I have, like…a _heart_ condition, and I don’t think I could take that again, so I’m willing to admit to an inadequacy if you’ll just let it happen. That’s special. I don’t do that. How about it?”

I feel my eyes dampen, and I blink. He must think—God, he must think I’m such a _baby_. I’m sitting here crumbling in front of him, and I don’t know who’s holding me, and he’s treating me like—like I’m broken. And I am, but I don’t want him to treat me like it. I don’t want to be broken.

Absently, hesitantly, I nod.

He lets out a tense breath, the wrinkles around his eyes smoothing the slightest bit. “Okay. Great talk, kiddo. Progress has been made. Steve, you can let him go.”

The name Steve alerts me to the fact that my crumbling, pathetic form is currently being held still by _Captain America_ , who gently releases me, keeping a steady hand on my back. “Are you okay, son?”

I blink up at him as he moves around into my line of sight, the familiar face from my textbooks drawn in blatant worry. For _me_. For the _murderer_ crumbling in their kitchen.

I feel tears gather, and blink them back, because I don’t deserve to cry.

I nod. It’s unconvincing.

“Okay, well, now that that’s settled,” Mr. Stark says, standing and brushing off the knees of his pants, “Steve can take you to the infirmary. I’m gonna go grab Sam and Bruce. Sound okay?”

I blink again. I don’t know Sam and Bruce.

“Oh. Um…Hulk and Falcon.”

My eyes narrow, and I feel my hands shake. “O-Okay.”

Hesitantly, he nods, exchanging a meaningful look with Mr. Rogers. He sends me what appears to be a reassuring smile. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry, you won’t be deprived of my glorious presence for long.”

Mr. Rogers snorts, his hand still steady on my back. “C’mon, let’s get you to the MedBay.”

My knees are shaking, so he takes my elbows and gently lifts me to stand, supporting me. “What’s your name?”

I blink. I don’t think Mr. Stark asked. I guess he forgot. “Um…Peter.”

“That’s a good name,” Mr. Rogers compliments as we shuffle down the hallway. “I’m Steve.”

“I know who you are,” I say with the slightest hint of awe, still not quite sure what’s happening or how I’m being escorted though Avengers Compound by Captain America.

Steve chuckles. “I guess you would.”

The rest of the trip is made in silence, and when we reach a set of sealed doors, he glances at the ceiling. “JARVIS, can you let us in?”

“Of course, sir,” a tinny, British voice responds, and I jump, feeling Steve’s hands tighten in comfort. “I’m sorry if I startled you, Peter. My name is JARVIS. I am Tony Stark’s Artificial Intelligence system.”

I gaze up at the ceiling with wide eyes, numbers and code and algorithms flashing through my head as I desperately try to think of the science behind this masterpiece. “Oh, wow. That’s—that’s _awesome_.”

Steve laughs a little as the doors swing open. “I’m glad you think so. Do you like science?”

I nod absently, taking in the medical wing. It’s nicer than any hospital I’ve ever been in. Dozens of machines line the walls, with two rows of six beds in the main room, I suppose for after a particularly grueling mission, or something. We pass through the main room and into a back hallway, where private rooms are set up. Steve leads me into the first one on the left, and it’s filled with equipment worth more than everything I own.

Steve helps me up onto the bed (well, he hefts me up under my armpits and sits me down like a toddler), and I sit, picking at the blood flaking off my fingers.

Steve’s eyes narrow. “Are you hurt anywhere other than your throat? You don’t seem to be in pain.”

I rub my neck, looking down as memories of Crush’s lifeless face flash behind my eyes. I shiver. “No. Just…some bruises, I think.”

Steve hesitates, but nods.

A few minutes later, Mr. Stark comes back. Trailing behind him are Sam Wilson, former pararescue turned Falcon, and Bruce Banner, who is one of my all-time favorite scientists. I feel a blush creep up my neck at the same time my blood drains to my feet, and I’m not sure how that’s anatomically possible, but it leaves me woozy in awe.

“Hi. Um…I didn’t ask you name.” Mr. Stark seems hesitant in embarrassment.

“You’re hopeless,” Mr. Wilson says before I can respond, reaching out a hand to me with a soft smile. “I’m Sam, please don’t call me Mr. Wilson, I hate it. I’m the guy with the wings. Nice to meet you. What’s your name?”

Before I can respond, again, he turns to Tony. “That’s how you properly introduce yourself to someone, Stark.”

Mr. Stark scowls.

He turns back, still waiting for me to shake his hand, and I feel my hands tremble in nervousness. I take a slow breath. “Uh…I-I…I don’t want to…” I look down. “…get blood on you.”

Sam blinks, then looks at my hands, and easily brings his hand down. “No worries. Nice to meet you anyways. What’s your name?”

“Peter.”

He nods, and smiles. It’s warm. “Very nice to meet you, Peter.”

I manage a smile.

I lock up when Bruce Banner steps forward with a gentle smile. I can’t believe I’m meeting him. I can’t believe that right now I’m actually _breathing the same air_ as Bruce Banner and Tony Stark. The thought is enough to send my head spinning.

“I’m Bruce Banner. You can call me Bruce; as you can see, we’re not big on titles here,” he says with a conspiratorial smile. “I know you probably know the Hulk a little more, but…”

He trails off with a self-conscious shrug, and my mind runs away with my mouth before I can even think to stop myself.

“I’ve read all your papers,” I blurt, unable to stop, the awe of meeting two of my idols inside an hour absolutely stripping me of any self-preservation or logical thought. “On gamma radiation, particle fusion, alternative energy through clean nuclear byproducts of cellular division, everything. You’re _amazing_. I wrote a paper on your nuclear fusion experiments for my eighth-grade science project, and it was amazing—not my paper, your research…I can’t believe I’m actually talking to you right now, this is—”

And then I realize what I’m saying, and follow it up with, “I’m, uh—I’m s-sorry, I talk a lot when I get excited.” I look down, my blush intense and scarlet, and wonder if I’ve upset him. I hope not. It wouldn’t really make my day any worse, but it would still suck.

Luckily, Dr. Banner seems not to mind, and grins. “Sounds like you know your stuff, Peter. If you’re staying overnight, I’d love to talk to you some more about it.”

My jaw drops, and I think I nod. My muscles are too lax in astonishment to consider formulating a response.

“I’m gonna go tell them rest of the team what’s going on,” Steve says quietly, sending me a supportive smile. “Plus, I was beating Rhodey when I left.”

“Pure luck,” Sam shouts after him, ignoring Steve’s indulgent wave. He turns back to me and whispers conspiratorially, “Don’t trust him. He’s a button masher. Those are the worst.”

I manage a small smile. I like Sam.

“How are you, kid?” Mr. Stark asks as Bruce retreats to one of the closets, looking for something.

I watch him with half an eye, shrugging. “I’m…I’m okay.”

Mr. Stark raises an eyebrow. “Once more. Try with feeling this time.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Ignore him. He’s better with machines than people.” He takes a seat in the armchair near the bed, and I stare at my feet, hovering in vacant space. I’m shocked back to the rooftop, watching my feet dangle over hundreds of feet of open air above the cars and people, and I shiver.

I glance up sharply as Bruce comes to my side, flinching. He notices, and slows his movements considerably. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I eye the devices Bruce has brought out. Sam must see something in my face, because he says, “Don’t worry, it’s just a heart monitor.”

“Um…” I say slowly, eyes flicking between each of them, my veins tightening in panic. “I-I…told Mr. Stark I didn’t really…want any doctors. I’m really okay.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow slightly in concern. “Peter, you’re covered in blood. I’d feel better if you let me check you out.”

“It’s—” I stop, my heart clenching, and look down. I feel pale. I’m cold. Do I really want to tell my heroes that I’m a murderer? That I’m no better than the things they fight, and hunt, and punish? I can’t, I—I can’t…

“It’s what, kid?” Mr. Stark says, startling me. My breathing is getting faster. “Don’t say it’s nothing. Cause it’s not.”

I falter. “Sorry, Mr. Stark, I just—”

“Oh, wow, no, none of that,” Mr. Stark interrupts, holding up a hand and looking vaguely horrified. “I’m too young and good-looking to be Mr. Anything. Just call me Tony.”

“Um…okay, Tony. I just…didn’t want any doctors.”

Tony’s eyes soften. “I know, kid. I know, and I’m sorry, but I don’t want you bleeding to death or anything, alright?”

I glance between the three of them, eyes wide, feeling naked and vulnerable and exposed. Then, I look down at my feet, unable to look into earnest eyes when I feel so…dirty. Tainted by death and the blood on my body and clothes.

“Most of it isn’t mine,” I mumble quietly, shutting my eyes.

“What? Speak up,” Tony says, not unkindly, but uncompromising.

“I said most of it isn’t mine,” I repeat quietly, but clearer. I know they hear me this time.

“Oh,” Tony says, his shock not very well hidden. “Okay. Um. How much of it is yours?”

I don’t look up. “Not a lot.”

I see Tony nodding out of the corner of my eye. “Okay. Okay, um…do I need to send help for them? Or did they attack you, and you fought back, or what?”

_Yes, but I murdered him. I killed him. I—I crushed Crush. I did that, with my own hands, and my knuckles still hurt from hitting him, and—and his eyes were so vacant, and his mouth was open, and—_

I swallow convulsively. “Can we…not talk about it?” I ask quietly.

Tony almost says something, but Sam cuts in, “Sure, Peter. Not until you’re ready. But we need to know if anyone out there needs help. Can we know that much?”

I shake my head. “No one needs help.” The dead don’t need help.

“Okay,” Bruce says, fiddling with the little machine. “I know you didn’t want anyone to examine you, but where did the blood that _is_ yours come from?”

“A nosebleed,” I say with a pointed glance at Tony. My heart calms the slightest bit.

Tony smirks, though his eyes are still dark with worry and uncertainty. “Sarcastic, funny, likes science, according to JARVIS. I’ve found my clone.”

I falter, staring at him with wide eyes, but he’s already looked away.

Bruce turns to me with a clip in his hand and gently takes my index finger, his movements slow and deliberate. I flinch, but I don’t jerk away, so Dr. Banner takes that as permission to keep going. He clips the monitor onto my finger and waits for it to calibrate. His eyebrows furrow. “Your heart rate is a little fast, Peter. Can you take some deep breaths for me?”

I try. Bruce looks slightly mollified after a minute or so, and continues checking me out. He runs his hands lightly over my limbs and ribcage to check for any breaks, his fingers gentle and warm, and they settle on my throat. I jerk back at first, flashing back to Crush’s hands around my throat, choking me, killing me—

“It’s okay,” Bruce says quietly, putting gentle hands on my shoulders. “It’s alright. I’m sorry.”

Slowly, I nod, and he returns his hands to my throat, fingers gauging the swelling and the bruising. I flinch, and I have to keep my eyes open and on his face, reminding myself that it’s not Crush, it’s not Crush, it’s not Crush.

Tony and Sam have retreated to the other side of the room and are talking quietly; Sam’s eyes are narrowed. I sigh through my nose, trying to keep my breathing even to fool the heart monitor. I guess Tony is probably telling Sam about how I was going to…

I shiver.

Bruce notices. “Are you cold? You’ve probably been outside a while; I can find you some clean clothes, if you want.”

I look down at my blood-stained outfit. “Please,” I say quietly.

Bruce smiles sadly and leaves. I hope he’ll be back soon. I’ll do anything to get out of these itchy, bloody clothes. Sam and Tony are still talking, but after a second, Sam returns and smiles slightly. Tony stays back a little, his eyes shadowed in hidden concern. “Peter, can we talk for a minute?”

I stiffen. “What about?” I know full well what it’s about. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it.

“Well,” Sam says, reclaiming his seat in the armchair and leaning forward, clasping his hands between his knees and looking up at me. “Tony told me about where he found you.”

I don’t speak, and I feel my muscles tightening, my heart racing, my lungs contracting. I shut my eyes and turn my face down, unwilling to look at Sam’s face or Tony’s face or anyone’s face. I don’t want to see the pity or the sympathy. I don’t want it.

“Peter, I used to be a psychologist, helping veterans with PTSD reacclimate to civilian life. I know it’s…not the same, but if something’s happened, and you need someone to listen, I can do that. I’m also bound by a patient confidentiality agreement, if you’re worried about anyone else knowing what you tell me.”

Tony makes an indignant noise as Bruce returns with some clothes, obviously not happy with the possibility of being kept in the dark. Bruce smiles warmly and sets them down next to me, also checking on my heart rate. The smile instantly darkens, and his eyes narrow. “Peter, your heart rate’s gone _up_. I told you to take deep breaths and relax,” he says sternly.

But I can’t relax, can’t even look up, can barely _breathe_ , because _Sam wants to talk and I can’t talk about it_.

“Peter?” Sam asks, leaning forward to see my expression, as I’ve ducked my head.

“I don’t want to,” I say quietly. I shake my head quickly back and forth, and my throat _burns_ , but it’s a manifestation of my panic that I can’t stop.

My hands are shaking. I’d once tried to talk to someone. I tried to tell them. I wanted help. I wanted _out_. Jacob paid them off with the winnings from my most recent fight and gave me the beating of my life. Melissa watched with a cool stare, bottle in hand, as I screamed and cried. My back still has the scars. My healing factor takes care of the wounds, but I only heal faster; it doesn’t get rid of the scars.

I _hate_ the scars.

I _can’t_ talk about it.

“Hey,” Sam says quietly, resting a hand on my knee when it’s obvious that I’m not going to say anything else. “It’s okay; no one’s forcing you to talk, okay?”

I let out a shuddering breath I didn’t realize I was holding, and nod, clenching the clothes tightly. I have to get away. I have to…to just…take a minute. And breathe. And _think_. “Um, can I…?”

Sam eyes the clothes, looking startled. “Sure, sure; there’s a bathroom back there, you can take a shower. It should be stocked with soap and towels and everything. Do you need anything right now?”

I shake my head, getting down from the bed and retreating quickly to the bathroom. I shut myself in, sinking down with my back against the door, reveling in the silence for just a minute.

It’s too much, and not enough, but…it’s something.

It’s something other than the foster home I hate with the people who hate me.

It’s something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: HI! How are you? I miss you guys. Idk why, I posted like three days ago. Just do. :D
> 
> Hope you liked this chapter!!! AVENGERS! YAY!
> 
> Also. Do you understand the title now...? ;)
> 
> Thanks so much for your amazing support! You rock!


	6. Chapter 6

**Tony Stark**

I pride myself on being able to adapt quickly to unexpected situations. My mind runs calculations and situations faster than most people, so I can quantify circumstances and routes of adaptability pretty quickly. I made the world’s smallest arc reactor in a cave, and now I house a wide percentage of the world’s heroes. I’m very able to deal with odd situations.

I…don’t know what to do about this.

“Tony, stop pacing,” Sam says from where he’s seated. “You’re making me dizzy.”

I shoot him a look, reluctantly slowing to a stop to lean against the counter. Bruce watches quietly, reviewing the numbers from the kid’s—Peter’s—brief physical. “What are we supposed to _do_ with the kid? I know it was impulsive to bring him here, but I couldn’t—you know, I couldn’t just _leave_ him…”

“Deep breaths,” Bruce instructs, glancing up from where he’s scribbling things on his chart, setting it down to look at me. “I know he looks bad, but if it was anything life threatening, he would’ve been showing signs of physical distress. Besides an elevated heart rate, there’s nothing.”

“Okay, but…what about _emotional_ distress?” I prompt, waving my hand dramatically as my nerves fray. I’ve never been one for—well, _kids_ , but seeing that kid on the rooftop, and the look in his eyes, his body language, his words…I’d like to think it would mess anyone up. That’s what I’m going with so I don’t feel so insufficient.

“You’re the psychologically invasive one, Sam,” I comment idly, glancing at the door. I don’t think we have any razors inside, but I’m suddenly terrified we do. FRIDAY will alert me if he tries anything, but the not knowing is enough to freak me out. I know everything. I don’t like not knowing things. “Fix it. I gift the problem to you.”

Sam scoffs, raising an eyebrow. “God, I don’t know how you’re still functioning like a human. You don’t just _fix it_. He’s not a robot.” Precisely why I feel so out of my element. “And you’re the one who actually saved him, Tony. If he sticks to the data, he’ll be relying on _you_ because of that.”

I sniff awkwardly, pulling at the tie that now feels a little too tight. “I’m too old for this.”

Bruce snorts.

I hear the water shut off, and immediately straighten, waiting impatiently for the kid to come out so I can get a better look at him while he’s…not covered in someone else’s blood.

I guess my tapping shoe gets annoying, because Bruce kicks my foot. “Enough. You’re driving the Other Guy crazy.”

I scowl.

Just then, the kid exits the bathroom, in clean clothes with damp, curly hair. Having him back in my sight makes me feel a little bit better, but even a shower and the absence of blood can’t hide the bruises on his neck or the look in his eyes. They look awful. He shuffles with his head down and his eyes trained at the floor, moving like a single stray noise will send him running.

He’s holding a bloody wad of fabric in his hands.

“Want me to have those washed for you, Peter?” I ask, now that I know the kid’s name.

He hesitates, glancing at me and then at the bundle in his hands, and shakes his head. “Just…throw them away.” I’m not surprised. I wouldn’t want to keep them, either.

“I’ll take them,” Bruce says with a smile, which earns a…well, not a smile, but a not-frown from the kid. Not-frowns are progress.

“Feel better?” Sam asks.

Peter nods hesitantly, picking at the hem of his shirt. The kid’s tiny. Five-five, a buck twenty, _maybe_. Bruce’s clothes fit well enough, but I can see him periodically adjusting the waist of the sweatpants. He’s shifting on his feet and glancing at the door. I can tell the kid is incredibly uncomfortable, and try to diffuse the tension.

“…I have a guest room ready upstairs,” I say reluctantly. I want to talk to him some more about what happened—where the blood came from, the bruises, why he felt the need to…almost—yeah. I want answers, and I don’t like not having them. However, he looks dead on his feet, and even _I_ know when to stop pushing. I sometimes choose to ignore that knowledge, but I figure now isn’t the best time. “You can sleep as much as you want, yeah?”

Peter’s eyes widen, looking at me with a deer-in-the-headlights expression that I haven’t seen since I caught Wanda and Vision making out in the living room last year. “Mr.—Tony, I-I…I can’t—”

“Nope. None of that. You can. Everyone can sleep, and you’re going to. You need it.” I wave my hand in dismissal, sure that this kid’s politeness and skittishness will be the death of me. “Bruce, Sam, back me up.”

Bruce adjusts his glasses, and I’m suddenly very glad he’s here. His mild nature seems to be making Peter a little more comfortable. “I hate to say it, but he’s right.” Ignoring my look of tepid betrayal, he continues, “Sleep is the best thing for you, especially if you need to heal.”

“And it’s the best thing for your mind,” Sam confirms. “I know you said you didn’t want to talk about anything, but sleep on it. We’ll see tomorrow, okay?”

Peter stiffens, looking nervous, but he nods slowly. I think it’s only to avoid further suspicion. It’s one battle won, though.

I walk him to the guest room, and even though Vision, Wanda, and Pietro are in Paris, I warn him about how little stock Vision puts in walls and doors, trying to get a laugh. Instead, the kid’s eyes widen like saucers, and I sigh internally.

I pause after letting him walk inside, leaning against the doorframe. “Listen, kid, I…look. I won’t…pretend to know what’s going on, you know? Your business, and all that. Just…this place is off the map. Confidential. Fort Knox. No one’s going to rat you out, and…you can stay as long as you want.” I’m even surprised at myself for the offer, but it’s out in the open now, and I’m not very well about to take it back. “Comprende?”

Peter’s overwhelmed, of course. I can tell. His hands are in tight fists, knuckles pale and fingers tense, and his back is ramrod straight. Conversely, his head is lowered, and his eyes are dully panicked, taking in everything at once. He flinches at the slightest movement.

Despite that, he gives me a small, awkward, timid smile, and I blink, surprised at the way my heart warms. “Thanks, Tony.”

I blink again, scratch my ear, and turn away. “Sleep tight, kid. Ask FRIDAY if you need anything, and she’ll get me.”

He nods, and turns to look around the room. I close the door softly, turning to make my way back to common room so we can…confer. Discuss. Figure out what the hell is happening.

I pause, my mind racing in an unusual amount of concern. “FRIDAY, if he…tries anything, get me immediately, no matter what I’m going.”

“Yes, boss,” she replies.

When I get back to the common floor, Mortal Kombat has been paused, and Sam and Bruce have returned to their original seats. Everyone looks up expectantly when I walk in, and I sink into the open armchair. “Hi. I’m unwilling to accept the fact that I need help with the situation, but I’m being agreeable and allowing you to share your thoughts, nonetheless. So…go for it. Open floor.”

I wave my hand in invitation, and Steve frowns. “Should he be alone?”

“I’ve asked FRIDAY to alert me if he tries anything,” I assure, glancing at Clint, Natasha, Bucky, and Rhodey. “Are you caught up, or do you need the highlights?”

Natasha crosses her arms, frowning. “We’re caught up. I think it was a stupid risk. We don’t know anything about him.”

I roll my eyes, intending to assure her that Peter is not, in fact, a Russian spy out to replace her, but FRIDAY beats me to it.

“Peter is currently trying to sleep,” she says, her tone challenging. “He seems to be having a rather difficult time. I assure you, Ms. Romanov, Peter is most definitely not trying to access your or anyone else’s personal information.”

I may have…gone a little overboard with the particulars of FRIDAY’s personality. FRIDAY and Natasha, with FRIDAY’s somewhat-abrasive nature and Natasha’s masks of cold indifference and willfulness, have a…special relationship.

Natasha glares at the ceiling, and I’m glad she’s taking it out on my AI and not me.

“Well, just let him try,” I say, leaning back, pinching the bridge of my nose. I’d very much like a big glass of whiskey, but unfortunately, I’m trying to be better. Which has sucked. “Nat, he’s not…a spy, or anything. He’s a hurt, scared, suicidal teenager, and I’m just letting him crash here until he…isn’t.”

I blink, the words sounding foreign enough to be frightening. “Nope. That…that’s weird. Let’s just call him a guest.”

“Well, he’s physically alright, aside from the bruising on his throat,” Bruce says. “He seemed fine with breathing and talking, so I’m not worried about internal damage. I assume there’s other bruising, but I didn’t want to make him go through a full physical. He seemed skittish enough as it was.”

“So…how do we…help him?” I ask hesitantly. “I mean…he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, and I don’t blame him. Do I…I don’t know, drop him on the steps of a church with a blanket, or something? He lives in a foster home, but I have a feeling that’s part of the problem. He didn’t seem overly fond of the parentals.”

Clint’s been unusually quiet, but he tilts his head at that, eyes darkening. “Do you think he’s been abused?”

I feel a writhing darkness ebb into my mind at the thought. It was there, in the recesses of my mind, but I didn’t want to consider. Now that Clint has voiced it, though, I have to face it, and something ugly twists inside me.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Sam says quietly. “I did some work in the foster system during my internship, before working at the VA. There are some great foster homes, but there are also some really, really bad ones.”

I’m antsy. My fingers tap nervously against the arms of the chair I’m sitting in, and my eyes are constantly flicking around, looking for a clean cut solution that I know doesn’t exist. I’m so far out of my element that my mind is actually struggling to keep up, which is a very uncomfortable feeling.

“…I hate to be the one to say it,” Bucky ventures, looking a little skittish himself. He and I are fine, now—we’ve worked through our differences—but I wouldn’t call us friends. Acquaintances, friendly by mutual friends, sure. He still stays pretty quiet around me, which I’ve passively tried to correct, and we’ve made progress. “But didn’t we…I don’t know, legally kidnap him?”

Rhodey pats him on the shoulder with a sympathetic smile. “I know you’re still kinda new, man, but Tony doesn’t do much legally.”

I scowl, but I can’t deny it.

“Yeah, well. Formalities.” I wave my hand, dismissing the accusation. “He’s safe here, and he wasn’t on the damn rooftop, so…I’m not worried. But…yeah. I don’t know, I mean…how long do we…let him stay?”

“Tony, you’re…you can’t just steal a kid,” Natasha cuts in, pinching the bridge of her nose in an unusual display of exasperation. “I know you’re trying to help, but the Avengers aren’t equipped to…to _raise_ a kid. You need to break it off sooner rather than later. It’ll be easier.”

My jaw ticks, and anger twists in my stomach. “That’s a very Natasha answer, Nat.”

“Okay, okay,” Steve says, eyebrows drawn in concern as Natasha’s eyes darken. “Nat, you…you didn’t see the kid. He really needs some help. And Tony, you’re not helping anything, especially Peter, by saying things like that.”

I look away, properly admonished (pretending to be, anyways), but Natasha doesn’t back down.

“This is a mistake,” she says quietly. “A lot of mistakes are made with good intentions, and I know that’s what this is. But…he can’t stay, Tony.”

I purse my lips, and look away, but with a twisting gut, I know she’s right.

We’ll help him, we’ll figure out…I don’t know, where to put him while making sure he won’t get hurt anymore, but she’s right.

Avengers Compound is no place for a kid.

…

I spend most of the night researching suicide, foster homes, teenage suicide statistics, orphanages (which aren’t really a thing here, but there are still a couple) and a lot more that drag me down a rabbit hole. It’s a dark rabbit hole that leads to supplementary articles on abuse, alcoholism, and a lot of other dark things I thought I left behind a while ago.

I’m up for most of the night, and I stumble into the kitchen the next morning, feeling dead on my feet and like I’ve accomplished nothing at all, because now I’m just depressed. I’m not sure how to help the kid. I see Natasha, and I almost do a full one-eighty, but she’s never been one to let me back out of arguments.

“I’m not going to yell at you first thing in the morning,” she says, shimmying the frying pan with one hand. She doesn’t turn around, even though I don’t think I made any noise. I swear the KGB implanted her with sensors or something. It would make sense. I’d think she was part robot if I didn’t know better. “I’m not a demon.”

“Are you sure?” I deadpan, rummaging around the fridge. I emerge with milk that I instantly know has soured, and make a face, throwing it out. “Damn. Who was in charge of the shopping?”

“You.”

I blink. “You should’ve known not to trust me with that.”

She sighs. “Of course.”

I walk around behind her, leaning against the counter and checking my email, deleting all the spam, deleting the ones from Ross, and forwarding the rest to Pepper.

“FRIDAY, what’s the kid doing?”

As Natasha plates the eggs, FRIDAY responds, “He’s been sleeping most of the night. He woke up in distress several times throughout, but requested I not alert anyone. Right now, he is sleeping.”

I nod, a little upset that he refused help, but I guess it’s to be expected. I lean over Natasha’s shoulder, looking at the surprisingly palatable plate she’s making.

“You get nothing,” she says with a smirk. “Cook your own breakfast.”

I sigh. “Demon.”

“If you say so.”

She hops up onto the counter with all the grace of a ballerina, munching on a piece of buttered toast as I resignedly rifle through the fridge for the remaining eggs.

“You didn’t sleep.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t profile me. I’m tired.”

“Researching?”

“Yeah,” I say, frowning when I realize we’re out of cooking spray. Damn. Maybe I _should_ have done the groceries. “Trying to…find options.”

She doesn’t react facially, but she tilts her head the slightest bit. “Well, that’s good. Don’t get attached.”

I shoot her a look. “I never get attached.”

She snorts. “Please. You’re adorable.”

I scoff, and sigh. “Look, Nat, you…you don’t have to help, if you’re that against it. I don’t get it, but…whatever. I think he’s a good kid, and I’m not going to just…you know. _Not_ help. Avengers, and all that. Save the planet. Save a kid.”

She’s quiet as I crack the eggs. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help, Tony. You know I’ll help with whatever you need. Within reason.” I smile. “I’ll help. I just know that…despite the egocentric, manipulative, loudmouth, idiotic, self-centered—”

“God, Romanov.”

“My point is, you put up a lot of fronts, but under all that…you get attached. Easily.” She pauses, and I dump a hunk of butter into my eggs, ignoring my diet. Well, some butter won’t give me a heart attack. I hope. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

I sniff thoughtfully, stirring the eggs, and shrug. “Okay. Thanks.”

“And you call _me_ a robot. I pour all that out and all you can say is thanks?”

“You want me to admit my undying gratitude?”

“Asshole.”

I pause, and I’m glad my back is to her so she can’t see the way I smile. It’s genuine, and I know she’ll call me out on it if she sees it.

I was prepared to do it without her, but I’m…glad she’ll help. She always has a plan.

I know I should probably do something a little nicer, but…she knows, anyways.

Now that that battle’s won, I have to figure out how to help the kid.

“You’re smiling like a little girl.”

“ _Dammit_ , Romanov.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO ! Don’t worry, Natasha gets a lot more on board later, but she’s skeptical now bc she doesn’t know Peter yet and is trying to protect her family, because she’s ahem not a robot. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and for your continued support! You guys are AWESOME!
> 
> So…unfortunately I probably won’t be able to post nearly as often. When my job starts, I’ll be booked from pretty much 8-8 every day, and it goes right up until the first day of school, after which…ya know. School. But I’ll do my best :) even if I don’t post for a while, just know that I’m not abandoning you or this story! Just going through a busy period. Thanks for understanding!
> 
> Thank you guys so so much!


	7. Chapter 7

**Peter Parker**

I blink my eyes open.

For a moment, panic constricts my lungs. The environment is unfamiliar—it’s not my apartment in Queens, and it’s not the hellhole in the Bronx. My first instinct is that I’ve finally been taken by Oscorp, that the fosters have finally given up on me and turned me over, but...I’m _much_ too comfortable for that to make sense.

I’m warm, and buried in very soft sheets under a lot of very thick blankets. Sun spills through shaded blinds, and I know it’s far past when I usually sleep. The clothes are kind of big, and I wonder whose they are until my brain finally catches up, and I remember where I am.

I’m sleeping in Tony Stark’s guest room.

In Bruce Banner’s clothes.

In the Avengers Compound.

I have to blink up at the ceiling for a full minute before the statements make sense, and even then, the surreal nature of the situation leaves me grasping at smoke. I push the blankets back and set my feet on cool hardwood, looking around the room, trying to understand what’s going on.

I remember now that I’d woken up several times in the night, but they were brief spurts of awareness interrupting otherwise decent sleep. This is the first time I’m really getting a look around the room with fresh eyes. Last night…

I don’t want to think about last night. It had been the terrifying collision of my wildest dreams and my worst nightmare, and I still don't know how to feel. I can’t...accept the fact that Earth’s Mightiest Heroes are unknowingly housing a murderer. So...I ignore it. I ignore those feelings, and I ignore last night, and I inspect my surroundings. 

I’d bet the bedframe alone is worth more than everything I’ve ever owned, to start. 

It’s nothing incredibly fancy, like I’d kind of expected, but it’s sleek, black wood with semi-intricate carvings by the posts, and there is no evidence of dents or scratches. There’s a matching nightstand and a dresser with a vanity mirror. I get up slowly, holding one of the bed posts until I can get my balance, and make my way to the mirror.

I lean on the dresser and look at my reflection, and...I don’t recognize myself.

Two months ago, had I seen my reflection, I would’ve thought I’d been body-snatched, or something. That I was inhabiting some poor homeless kid’s skin.

Now...I look at myself, and I see the last traces of the almost-healed bruises encircling my throat, and rub it self-consciously. I look at the deep purple circles under my eyes and my pronounced cheekbones, my gaunt face. I look at my collarbones and the paleness of my skin.

How did I fall this far in two months?

I close my eyes, letting my head drop, and feel my hands shake against the obsidian dresser.

A question for another day. Not today. Not...not so soon after everything. 

Now, I have to figure out what I’m going to do.

Before I can, however, there’s a knock at the door.

I blink. Are they asking for permission? “Um…come in?” I cringe at how uncertain I sound.

The door opens with a small whine, and there stands Steve Rogers, Captain America. I blink again, and have to remind myself that no, I’m not hallucinating.

He smiles, and I tense without knowing why. “Morning, Peter. How are you feeling?”

I glance away from him, his honest eyes too much to bear on top of my guilt, and shrug. “I-I’m okay.” I wonder where Mr. Stark is, and then I mentally kick myself. Of course, he wouldn’t come check on me. He owns a company and manages the Avengers. I bet he has six million super important top-secret things to do.

I glance back when I’m met with a couple seconds of silence, and I see Steve Rogers staring at my chin. At least, I think that’s what he’s staring at.

Oh, no. Did I drool in my sleep?

Feeling heat creep up my neck, I turn back to the mirror as subtly as I can, raising a hand to my chin. Then I see what he’s looking at, and I quickly put a hand to my throat.

The bruises had been a livid purple last night, but now, they’re faint blotches of blue and gray and green, the telltale palette of healing wounds.

“U-Um…I…I—” I can’t think of a lie, so all I do is stare at his chest, wondering what’s going to happen.

They’re heroes. They won’t give me to Oscorp. I know that much. But will they give me to someone else? Charles Xavier, or something? I can’t go there. I—

“I didn’t expect that,” Steve says as casually as he can, leaning against the doorjamb. Hesitantly, I look up. He’s in workout clothes—I wonder if he’s been in the gym. His eyes are calm. “You’re enhanced?”

I feel my hands shake, so I tuck them under my armpits and nod like a puppet on a frayed string.

“I should’ve expected it,” Steve says, smiling. Why isn’t he angry for not telling them sooner? Why isn’t he yelling? “You put up a good fight last night, when I was trying to calm you down. I thought it was an adrenaline thing.”

I don’t know what to say, so I shrug. God, this is pathetic. I can’t even string a sentence together.

“Are you hungry?” Steve asks after a few more beats of silence, voice still calm and even. “It’s almost lunchtime. I think Nat’s cooking today. She’s good, don’t worry.”

Hesitantly, again, I nod, then mentally kick myself. Words, Parker. “Um…y-yes. Yeah, I’m…hungry.”

Steve nods, ignoring my stutter. I hate it, and I didn’t get it until a few weeks in at the fosters’, but I’m glad he doesn’t say anything about it.

Steve chatters on about something as we walk the winding halls to the kitchen. I think he’s talking about Mortal Kombat. I listen with half an ear, smiling softly in the right places, but I’m mostly thinking about what’s expected of me at this lunch.

I assume they’re all going to be there—that’s what it sounded like, anyways. I don’t know what questions they’re going to ask me. I don’t know what questions I can answer. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to say or do or feel.

I suppose I should tell them I’ll be leaving soon, so they don’t have to deal with me anymore, but I don’t know where I’ll go. I can’t go back to the fosters’ or the fight club. I wonder if I can catch a bus somewhere and start over. New name, new identity, but…I don’t know where I’d start. I think I have…seventy-six cents. And I think it was in the pocket of the clothes I asked Mr. Stark—Tony—to throw away.

Damn. Okay. That complicates things.

I’m startled out of my planning when we arrive in the kitchen to a scene of…well…chaos.

I’ve been watching and idolizing the Avengers since I was six years old. When my parents died, and I couldn’t save them, or do anything about it, I turned to the heroes who could. I knew, even then, the Avengers didn’t know about their deaths, so they couldn’t have saved them. But they saved other people, right?

Then Mr. Stark said _Nice work, kid_ , and the guilt I’d been lugging around had been completely absolved, lost in the sound of the departing thrusters. I’d idolized them, and watched them, and wanted to be like them. I’d wanted nothing more.

Then, I killed someone, intentionally or not. I killed Crush with my own hands, and last night, that dream had evaporated, but I still idolized them and worshipped them and couldn’t believe they were giving me the time of day.

Now, though…

…I wonder how in the world these people ever managed to function as a cohesive unit.

I can see veins bursting in Natasha Romanov’s forehead as she stands over a boiling pot, looking as close to murderous as I bet she can without acting on her desires. The wooden spoon in her hand looks as though someone has snapped it in half. I can understand her frustration. The cacophony is driving me insane, and I just got here.

Behind her, at a polished oak table, the Winter Soldier has Sam Wilson locked in a headlock, reaching over the writhing man for a breadstick in Sam’s hand. Sam, despite his reddening face, is doing a valiant job of keeping the breadstick away from both the Winter Soldier _and_ who I think is Hawkeye, who’s literally leaning over the table with a death grip on Sam’s wrist, trying to wrestle the breadstick away from him. To prevent him, Sam has one leg up on top of the table firmly planted against Hawkeye’s chest, keeping his other hand just out of reach of the breadstick.

Dr. Banner—Bruce—is sitting at the head of the table, his head slumped exhaustedly on his hands, watching with a completely unimpressed expression. And Tony Stark is standing a few paces back, filming it all.

I expect Steve to jump in in alarm, and I glance at him in confusion and worry when we approach the scene. Instead of him reacting like I’d expected—taking command of the situation like any leader and ordering Earth’s Mightiest Heroes to _stop killing each other_ —he sighs.

“How long this time?” Steve says, entering the room while I stand frozen in the doorway.

“Upwards of six minutes,” Bruce says, taking a sip of tea. “Nat broke another spoon.”

“Shit, now I have to edit out the extraneous audio,” Mr. Stark complains, eyes furrowed in concentration as he zooms in on Natasha Romanov’s face, which is darkening considerably. “Ope. Nat’s mad.”

“Steve, if you don’t shut them up in the next fifteen seconds, someone’s going to die,” Natasha Romanov says, her calm, quiet voice completely at odds with her rigid posture.

Steve sighs. “What are you making?”

“Spaghetti.”

“And you made your famous breadsticks?” Something on the brink of accusation lingers in his tone.

“Don’t you dare pin this on me, Rogers. I made twice as many as last time. It’s not my fault they’re children.”

“Hey, don’t you think our guest should get at least one breadstick?” Bruce voices, glancing at me with a gentle, comforting smile. His eyes seem to narrow at my startled expression, and he sighs. “Guys. You’re scaring him. Can you be civil for today, please?”

Abruptly, the tangled mass of writhing limbs shudders to a halt, and they look at me. Under the weight, I have to step back. “U-Um…”

“Oh, morning,” Tony Stark says, putting a hand on my shoulder on greeting. I don’t see him coming, and I flinch. I don’t miss the way his eyes darken, but he doesn’t remove his hand, instead giving my shoulder a brief, comforting squeeze. “Didn’t see you come in. Here’s your entertainment for today.”

I glance at the three heroes who are slowly extracting themselves from the table and each other, at a loss for words. Sam’s hand is still squeezed firmly around the breadstick, and I wonder who would want it now that it looks like a piece of melted modern art.

Apparently Sam does, though, because he shoves it into his mouth the second the Winter Soldier releases him.

“Dammit all to hell, Sam,” the Winter Soldier growls, his eyes murderous. The words are almost lost to Hawkeye’s tirade of language even Uncle Ben didn’t use that one time Ned and I snuck into the city for a Lego convention and almost got trampled in a protest.

Sam tries to mumble something through the bread, fails, and settles for flipping the Winter Soldier off, instead.

I almost choke. I know what the Winter Soldier is capable of. Sure, he’s better now, but he was a ruthless, brainwashed killer for _decades_. He’s going to kill him. Holy shit, he’s—

Before anyone can do anything, though, a butcher knife is embedded in the table between Sam and Hawkeye, and the room goes deathly still. I don’t dare breathe, but Tony’s hand doesn’t even flinch in surprise on my shoulder.

“If you’re going to act like children for the rest of the day,” Natasha Romanov’s slow, even voice says, and shivers are jumping up and down my vertebrae, “I’m going to systematically disable every single device in this building, up to and including every gaming device, phone, tablet, and computer we have. Then I’m going to break into your rooms, steal your favorite clothes, books, and belongings, and then I’m going to bury them in the anthill by the lake. And then I’m going to drug you, hogtie you to each other, and cover you in honey, and then I’m going to leave you under the bee’s nest on the edge of the forest until sunrise tomorrow. And _after that_ , if I even _think_ you’re going to speak at a volume louder than seventy decibels, I’m going to hack FRIDAY and deny you entry to the gym, the pool, the library, the outdoors, the kitchen, the pantry, the garage, and anywhere else I see fit. So are you going to shut up and sit down and eat, or do I need to have Tony order some honey?”

I’m left absolutely _quaking_ in the wake of the tirade, so I balk in surprise as the three objects of her rage wave off the threats with shrugs and half-hearted promises of more reasonable volumes.

Steve sighs. Bruce sips his tea.

“Dammit, now I have to order a new table,” Tony mumbles, leaving my side to finger the gouge in the table left by the sizable butcher knife.

“Morning, Peter,” Sam mumbles around the remnants of the breadstick. Hawkeye is sitting in a slump of depression, eyes laser focused on Sam, and the Winter Soldier has gone to pester Natasha Romanov, which I—I can’t even fathom the level of either stupidity of bravery necessary for that after what she just said, but she doesn’t seem to be trying to kill him.

“Um…g-good…good morning,” I say slowly.

“Well, it’s a little late,” Tony says with an amused smile, “but welcome to Avengers Compound. These are the rest of our currently present ragtag heroes.”

The Winter Soldier waves, stealing a spoonful of spaghetti sauce. Sam smiles as he finally swallows. Hawkeye lifts two fingers in greeting, still looking depressed. I blink.

Maybe I would’ve been safer on the streets, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg that was literally so fun to write XD Hope you liked it! Poor Peter literally has no idea what to think right now lol.
> 
> You’re all so awesome! Sorry there wasn’t much substance to this chapter, but I figured we could use some levity after the arguably crushing intro X’D Thanks for the support! Have an awesome day!


	8. Chapter 8

**Peter Parker**

Lunch is weird.

I pick at my food. It’s good, it’s _really_ good, but my stomach is doing circles as I eat, surrounded by the Avengers, who seem to find my presence perfectly normal. At least, they’re acting like it.

I really hope I’m not offending the Black Widow by not eating a lot. That would really suck. 

Colonel Rhodes showed up to the table just as we sat down, so I ended up between Sam and Tony towards the end, completely incongruous with the heroes around me, and shrank as much as I could.

Steve pulled Tony aside before we sat down, and I watched Tony’s eyes narrow, and I watched his lips move. He told him about my enhanced healing. That’s fine, I guess. At least I don’t have to be the one to say it. It seems everyone else has noticed the much better bruising, but they haven’t mentioned it.

In fact, the conversation has been stupidly domestic.

I don’t really know what I expected, I guess. In some part of my mind, I had to know that they were human too. Well, mostly human, but whatever. I guess…I half expected them to be talking about the next up-and-coming supervillain, or a strategy meeting for whatever. I expected something…I dunno, _exciting_.

In reality, I’m listening to Earth’s Mightiest Heroes debate skin care routines.

“Okay, okay, but do you put on moisturizer or just lotion?” Sam asks, eyes alight with much more interest than I might have expected. “Because I’ve been looking around for a new routine, and everyone says different things.”

“What’s the difference?” Bruce asks, chin propped in his hand as he watches, looking distinctly bored.

“Oh, poor bastard,” Tony says. He glances at me, and I blink in surprise. “Um. Poor individual.” I almost laugh. I’ve heard much worse from the fosters. He doesn’t need to censor himself on my account, but I’m not going to say as much. “No, there’s six million labels out there, but it’s brand that matters. How do you think I stay so ruggedly handsome?”

Clint scoffs. “I’m sorry, I’m trying to search for the end of your ego, but it’s kind of starting to strain my eyes. I wash my face and shave. That’s it.”

“Oh, hell nah,” Colonel Rhodes says in something like actual horror. “You don’t use aftershave or anything?”

“No.” Clint seems almost affronted.

“Excuse me while I call your wife so we can fix this,” Natasha weighs in, one leg propped on her chair as she lounges with the air of a lazy housecat. “Bucky, what do you use?”

Bucky opens his mouth to respond, looking a little confused, but Tony cuts him off. “Robocop gets no opinion. He was born without pores. Screw him.”

Bucky blinks, and Steve laughs a little. I’m glad, I was afraid that would start a fight. “It’s infuriating, isn’t it? Buck, it just means you naturally have good skin, don’t worry about it. Peter, do you use anything?”

I blink as all eyes turn to me, and my eyes flit from one expectant face to another. I know it’s probably Steve just being nice, trying to include me in the conversation, but I suddenly feel exposed. I sit on my hands as they start to shake. “Just, uh…j-just acne care.”

_Nice. Well, that was relatable for a bunch of thirty to forty something_ models _. Way to go, Parker._

“Your skin’s important, Peter. Acne care is good, but you should look into some other stuff, too. I think I have some samples from my last dermatology appointment…if you’d like, you can try some,” Natasha says easily.

_OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod the Black Widow is talkingtomeaboutskincare wtf oh my God Natasha Romanov goes to a dermatologist what how did I find this situation what the hell is happening how should I respond oh my God—_

“Um. Thank. You?”

I cringe.

Maybe I’ll just die right here. Maybe I’ll just let the embarrassment steal me quietly away. Maybe, if the Grim Reaper shows up in a cloak with a scythe and starts trying to coax a reluctant youth into death, I’ll thank him and offer to drive.

“You’re welcome. Would you like something different? You’re not eating much.” Her voice is surprisingly…formal, I guess. It’s a little weird.

I see Sam share a meaningful glance with Bruce at that comment, but I don’t pay attention to it. “I, um…” I glance at my plate, still piled with spaghetti and sauce—someone made it for me, so apparently they thought I ate way more than I did—and I feel really bad wasting it. “N-no, thanks. I’ll try to…finish this.”

“Don’t push yourself. Whatever you can eat is fine,” Sam says with a smile.

I nod, blushing so furiously I think you could cook an egg on my forehead. This is so embarrassing. I’m so embarrassing. Holy shit. I’m eating lunch with the Avengers, what the _fu—_

I can’t even understand this.

We finish eating, and someone puts my food in a Tupperware for later, insisting I’m welcome to anything in the fridge, and that’s so weird. Ben and May and I never had much extra food—things were tight as it was—so I wasn’t used to snacking much, and I was lucky if the fosters had something besides Ramen or spoiled milk, towards the end.

Natasha drags Bucky away for something, and Colonel Rhodes and Steve leave to discuss something about a General? Clint says he’s going to call his family (which I didn’t know he had, so that’s weird) and I’m left with Sam and Bruce and Tony.

They all have very intentional looks on their faces, and I swallow.

“Can we talk for a few minutes, Peter?” Sam asks.

I’m not really sure if it’s one of those things adults do when they ask you like you have a choice but you really don’t, so I nod, afraid to say no. We stay around the now-cleared dining room table, and I idly trace the carving on the wood’s edge. It’s flowers and greenery. It’s a nice distraction.

“So…you’re enhanced?” Tony starts, shifting a little. His fingers tap the table in…impatience? Anger? I can’t tell. I don’t know if he’s angry.

I flinch. I don’t know what to do. Or what to say. I don’t want them to get mad. Steve didn’t get mad, though. “…yes. I…I’m really s-sorry I didn’t, didn’t tell you, I—”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Tony says, waving a hand through the air, leaning back in his chair. He doesn’t seem mad. He seems a little on edge, but…I think I’m still safe. “We all have secrets, it’s all good. I’m glad you’re healing.”

I nod. I play with the hem of Bruce’s shirt, which is sagging around my shoulders, and stare at the table.

“Peter, can you tell us any more about what happened last night?” Sam asks, his voice low and steady. His hands are folded on the table, and his eyes are earnest.

I wince. I was expecting the question, but I don’t know what to say in response.

“Um…I…wh-which part?” I ask. So, so much happened last night. I killed a man—I became a murderer—and then I ran from it. I ran and ran and fell apart to the point where I’d rather throw myself off of a twenty-story building than deal with the aftermath. Not to mention the fosters. It is _not_ home, it never will be, but no matter how horrible it is, it’s a roof and a place, and even that’s gone. All my stuff is still there, if they hadn’t already thrown it out or reported me to CPS as a runaway.

I don’t know what they’ve done or what’s happening, and everything is slowly crumbling as I watch and stare, so I really don’t know which part of my fractured façade they want to discuss.

“First, how are you feeling?” Bruce asks, taking the reins for a moment. He adjusts his glasses, looking at my neck. I’m on one side of the table, and Bruce and Sam are on the other while Tony is on the end, so none of them can really reach me. I think I prefer that. “Your injuries look better, but I want it in your own words.”

“Um…I’m fine,” I assure. “I heal fast.” Oh. Duh, Parker. “I-I mean…I have some, uh…some other bruises, but they’re healing too. It’s j-just bruises.”

Bruce nods, and smiles. “Thank you. I’m glad. Can I do a physical later?”

I flinch, and maybe he sees the way my eyes go glassy or my hands freeze, because he backtracks. “Only if you’re comfortable. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

I don’t mind the physical, but he can’t see the scars.

“…maybe,” I say quietly.

“That’s cool,” Sam says. “Nobody’s forcing anybody to do anything. Right, Tony?”

There’s warning in his voice, and I look to Tony. He’s thrumming his fingers on the table, chin propped on his hand, and he rolls his eyes at Sam’s address. “I’m a pushy asshole, not a demon, Wilson.”

“Well, at least you’re aware of your defects.”

Tony scowls.

“Actually, can you give us a minute?” Sam asks, looking at Bruce and Tony. I sit up straighter, a little afraid at the thought of being alone with him, even though he’s been nothing but nice. But, it might be…easier to talk if questions aren’t coming from three different directions. “Is that okay, Peter?”

I start at the address, unprepared. I don’t know what the right answer is. “U-Um…I don’t care.” Neutral seems safe.

Tony’s glaring at Sam so intently that I think the Falcon will melt, but Sam seems unimpressed. “Cool. Then I’m deciding to have a one on one session. Beat it, Tin Can.”

Bruce sighs and gets up, fisting a hand in Tony’s suit. “You heard the man.”

“Shit, Bruce, this is Armani,” Tony complains, shrugging his hand off and straightening the suit jacket. “Careful, _careful_. Why aren’t you being mean to Green Bean? And by the way, my undying curiosity is starting to kill me, you know. Pete, I’d kind of like to know if the kid I snatched off a freezing rooftop is okay.”

His eyes are earnest, and a little more real than the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist I see on TV. I wonder, in a spurt of curiosity, how much of the Iron Man the world knows is the real person. It’s not my business, of course, but…I still wonder, now that I’m interacting with him up close. He’s…not nice. Well, that’s mean. He’s not…not nice like Sam, or Bruce, who ask questions and make sure I’m comfortable, and stuff.

He’s…not _not_ nice. After all, he did kinda save my life, and now he’s worried. He’s just…the word that comes to mind is rough.

Wait. _Prickly_. Yeah. Tony Stark is prickly.

Holy shit, I’m losing my mind.

After a pause that is surely too long, I open my mouth to respond, but the words die in my throat. Does he…want an answer? Does he want to stay? I don’t—

“I’m evicting you,” Sam announces. “Get out.”

“It’s literally my Compound.”

“FRIDAY?”

“ _On it. Boss, I’m afraid if you don’t leave the dining room in the next sixty seconds, I will be required to deny you access to the lab for the next forty-eight hours.”_

Tony blinks at the ceiling, turning blank eyes to Sam. “Override code. Now.”

“Nope.” Sam says, popping the p. He looks far more satisfied than I thought he would.

“FRIDAY, override code ‘Boss Man is in charge.’”

“ _‘Boss Man is in charge’ override code has been overridden by: ‘Boss Woman owns your company.’_ ”

Tony blinks again. “You recruited Pepper.”

“I did.” Sam’s smile is s smug I think Tony’s going to burst a blood vessel.

“You’re cancelled.”

“No, you’re evicted,” Bruce says, grabbing Tony’s wrist. “The Hulk is going to bodily carry you out of the room if you don’t follow me.”

Tony stands stock still for a couple more seconds before looking to Sam. “This won’t stand.”

“I’m quaking. Now get out.”

Tony gives one last attempt of resistance before Bruce bodily drags him from the room, and it’s quiet. It’s kind of funny. Kind of domestic. It’s very different from how I imagined the super secret home base for the Avengers, and…well…it’s nice.

It’s nice, but it’s unfamiliar, and I’m scared. I don’t know what’d expected of me now. I look at the table, still fidgeting a little, and wish I was tougher than I am. I feel so small.

“Peter?”

“Hm?” I ask, glancing at him. Sam’s so nice, too. I feel bad being scared of him. He’s literally a hero, and he seems to genuinely care about me when he asks questions.

But he doesn’t know. He—he doesn’t know.

Crush’s silhouette flashes behind my eyes, and I blink rapidly until it fades.

“Can we talk about last night? Whatever part you want to talk about?”

I breathe, shaky and uncertain, and shrug. “I-I don’t…I don’t know. Where to, um…start, or anything.” And I don’t know what I can say. They’re looking for answers, but what can I give them? What can I say that won’t make them hate me, arrest me, turn me in, or _worse_ , send me back to the fosters so they can send me to Oscorp?

“That’s fine. Do you want me to ask questions?”

Maybe that would be…easier, I guess. I can barely answer his current questions, let alone recount everything from scratch. “Can I…not answer them? If I don’t want to?”

“Of course.”

His answer is immediate and steady. Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe it will be okay if I don’t tell them yet. “I-I…um…okay.”

Sam smiles, and leans back, looking relaxed. The dining room table chairs are deceptively comfortable, so I try to do the same, kind of sinking into the cushions like they’re trying to swallow me. “These are comfy,” I mumble without meaning to.

Sam laughs. “They are. Last Thanksgiving, I fell asleep halfway through eating, I was so full.”

I smile at that, a little amused at the concept of Thanksgiving in Avengers Compound. I wonder what kind of conversation that was like.

“So can you tell me about the bruises? Is that something you’re comfortable talking about?”

I flinch, my mind flashing back to the gray, then the white, then the red. The failing consciousness, the desperation, the _blood_. “Um…not everything.”

“That’s fine,” he says. “Just tell me what you can.”

What can I say? I fidget more spastically, feeling skittish. I don’t want to be here.

I almost laugh. There’s nowhere else I can go, either.

“Someone gave them to me,” I say eventually, immediately feeling stupid. _No shit, Sherlock. Did he think you gave them to yourself_?

But Sam doesn’t laugh, or look confused. “I’m sorry that happened. Can you tell me why?”

“We were…um…fighting.”

“Why were you fighting?”

I flinch, scratching my face, and shrug a little. I don’t know what to say. “I…I didn’t want to.” The last thing I want them to think is that I’m some idiot who runs around starting fights for no reason. But I don’t know how to say that my foster parents force me to use my enhancements in a fight club to make them enough money to feed their addictions, either. “Someone, um…made me.”

Sam’s eyes narrow, and I flinch. I hate it, I _hate_ that, but it’s so instinctive now that I can’t…I can’t not. When Jacob’s eyes narrow like that, I know I’m going to be hurt. When Melissa’s eyes narrow like that, I know I’m going to be hurt.

Sam sees. His face instantly relaxes, smooth and unaffected, as if it was never upset in the first place. “Why did they make you?”

I shift, shrugging a little, not looking at him.

“Hm. You don’t want to tell me?”

Hesitantly, I shake my head. I don’t, because then…well, I don’t know what’ll happen then. I don’t think I know anything right now.

“Peter,” he says, and it’s calm and easy, but it’s also a little demanding. I look up at his tone, and he’s looking at me, dark eyes intent in something like concern. “I know you don’t know me well, but I’m not here to hurt you. I want to help you, if you’ll let me. Avengers Compound is a safe place, and no one’s going to hurt you.”

Before I can really censor myself or my actions, I glance dubiously at the prominent gouge in the table, from where Natasha had thrown the steak knife.

Sam follows my eyes. “Oh. Well…Natasha has good aim.”

That hardly makes me feel better.

“My point is, I know it may be weird talking to me about this, but if someone hurt you, I’d like to know what I can do to help,” Sam continues, leaning forward a little. I’m glad the table separates us, so the gesture is comforting instead of frightening. “I understand if you don’t want to tell me everything, but the Avengers have connections, and friends. If someone’s hurting you, we can try to make sure it stops.”

I flinch, and put my head down, staring sightlessly at the table as images fill my head. The fists, the belt, the bottles, the club…I want it to stop. More than anything, I want it to stop, but…I don’t know how. I’ve resolved myself, I know that I can’t let myself be hurt anymore, in a club or in a house, but…I don’t know how to do it by myself. And resolve will mean nothing when I’m facing Melissa and Jacob and their threats again, I know that, but…I don’t know.

I don’t know anything. I feel helpless and useless and vulnerable.

But I can’t tell them. I can’t, because that will mean telling them about Crush, and I can’t do that. I’m nothing, but still, I can’t admit to my heroes that I’m just another killer. I’m shaking my head before I make a conscious decision to do so, hard enough for the muscles in my neck to tense. I can’t. I can’t.

“Hey, hey, that’s fine,” Sam says, leaning forward, reaching a placating hand to the middle of the table. “Everything’s fine. You’re safe here. Yeah?”

I take a shaky breath and try to stop shaking, giving him a nod. I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to see disappointment or frustration.

“You’re doing great, Peter, really. I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re being a champ about it. Do you want to be done?”

I hesitate, then nod. I want this to be over, but being done for now is fine, too. “Yeah.”

“Okay, then we’re done. We can talk some more later.” I breathe, already feeling lighter knowing I won’t have to say anything else, at least right now. “That being said, I need you to look at me for a minute, okay?”

Something in his one shifts, and I glance up, wary, but I have no reason to be. His eyes are earnest and kind, and looking at him isn’t all that scary. “I need you to answer some things for me, okay?”

Hesitant again, I nod.

“That’s great. Listen, Tony told me about where he found you. I need you to be straight with me. Were you…thinking of committing suicide last night?”

I flinch, but I can’t look away from him, because there’s no judgment. There’s no surprise or contempt. It’s just a blank look of concern, and that’s easier. I…I can do concern, right now.

I take a breath, and it quivers on the way down, but I speak anyways. “I…I think so. It…I wasn’t sure, if…”

I trail off, and he understands, nodding. “You were thinking about it, but you hadn’t made up your mind yet.”

“Uh-huh,” I confirm, sitting on my hands so I avoid tapping them all over the place as an outlet for the adrenaline in my blood.

“Okay. Are you still having those thoughts right now?”

I blink, and glance at him, because I really don’t know the answer. I…well…not really, if for no other reason than I knew I wouldn’t get away with it here. That was concerning in and of itself, but…this was a good place. Nobody hurt me here. Hell, they were heroes. I still felt guilty for being here, but there was a modicum of safety, anyway. And Sam was nice, and Tony was obviously concerned about me, and Bruce was, too, and everybody was nice.

“…no,” I finally decide, shaking my head. “No, I don’t…not right now, no. Last night was…the first time I thought about it, and…I think it was more…” I search for the words, trying to find a way to accurately describe the dark, dark clouds in my head, the threatening rain waiting to spill over and wash what was left of me away. “I think…last night…I-I was really overwhelmed. And, and hurt, and…it was too much.”

Sam nods patiently, letting me stammer through my clumsy explanation, and waits a few seconds to make sure I’m done talking. “Good. That’s good, Peter. I want you to know, we may be keeping an eye on you, just because we’re worried, but that makes me feel better. If you ever start feeling that way again, while you’re here, you can tell FRIDAY, okay? She’ll make sure one of us comes to help you.”

I’m too tired to argue about being watched, so I nod. “Okay.” In a moment of lizard-brain dominance, I mumble, “You’re good at this.”

Sam laughs, looking a lot more relaxed than when he sat down. “I’m not a therapist, really, but my work with the VA has helped a lot with listening. I can’t promise I’ll have all the answers, but I’m always ready to lend an ear, okay?”

He holds out his fist in the middle of the table, and for a brief, startling second, I see Jacob’s fist coming at me, but it doesn’t move. He’s waiting for something. I glance at him, a question in my eyes.

He smirks. “Fist bump.”

I blush. Brilliantly. Horribly. _Oh_.

I tap his fist with mine and silently call the Grim Reaper, asking for directions to the netherworld so I can get out of this situation.

“ _If you’re done, Boss has requested your presence in the lab_ ,” FRIDAY’S voice startles me enough that I jump, glancing at the ceiling in a panic. “ _He’d like Peter’s input on some things.”_

I blink.

I blink again.

“Hey, look at that. Stark doesn’t let any of us except Bruce in his lab. Look at you, climbing the ranks,” Sam laughs, standing and stretching, making his way to the fridge. Geez, how is he still hungry? “Go on, kid, he hates waiting.”

I blink yet again.

There is no effing way Tony Stark is inviting me to his lab in Avengers Compound.

I’m hallucinating. Maybe Sam has anti-psychotics, or something, because I’m hallucinating, or—or I’ve been kidnapped and thrown into some alternate reality where I’m somehow the main character, and—

“Peter,” Sam says when I still haven’t moved, staring dumbly at the ceiling. “Do you need directions?”

“I think I need anti-psychotics,” I mutter without thinking. “I’m imagining a world where I’m the main character.”

Sam cackles, completely caught off guard, and I blink back to the present as I somehow realize that yes, this is a situation happening right now, and no, I am not imagining my surroundings. “No, you don’t, but that was funny. FRIDAY will tell you where to go.”

Dumbly, I stand and walk like a broken puppet as I contemplate the last twenty-four hours of my life.

“May, Ben,” I say, ignoring the twinge of pain in my chest as I continue on past the high-tech displays, the expensive furniture, the heroes dotted throughout the top-secret government compound as they talk about supervillains and skincare.

Holy shit.

“…I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehe. Hi. Long time no see. Hope you liked it! I’m running away now because I don’t like this chapter. I hope you do anyways. Thanks for reading :)
> 
> Also, this is random, but I wanna share. I’m currently applying to grad school for creative writing, because I wanna be a novelist (I want it so bad I can physically feel like an ACHE it’s not even funny) and I’m drafting a lot of novels right now. This is stupid and I feel kinda stupid, but I’m currently having a very large case of rapidly declining self-esteem and imposter syndrome, bc I don’t know if I can get in anywhere I applied (lol goals) and some encouragement would kinda be nice. But you totally don’t have to. Just. Um. I’m gonna go…stand over here. Yeah.
> 
> If you’re curious, my writing sample was a short story about a man named Adam and his wife Juno, and they travelled to the Dock (a huge hub of intergalactic legislation and business located on and in an asteroid) to plead for aid for the rest of humanity, in which failure meant no protection and probable enslavement or annihilation from other alien races. Most of humanity had already been wiped out by a particularly vicious race who enslaved humanity and then left them to die when the ecosystems collapsed and Earth shut down, and they’re now spread out between three satellites. So it’s that. I’m thinking of drafting it into a full novel, but idk yet. Lemme know if it sounds interesting! Or not, that’s fine too!
> 
> As always, I love you all, and thanks for all your love and support! Until next time :)
> 
> Also: Tony is prickly. That may be the best concept I have ever conceived. Please and thank you.


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